


I'll Keep Finding, Finding You

by crossingwinter



Category: Reign (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, F/M, also no no no no I refuse to love triangle there are none here bye, and also write a fix it fic that does but also doesn’t involve me rewriting western history, and by western history I mean reign’s version of western history, and yet also somehow involves me rewriting western history to meet my needs as major shipper trash, in which I am Highly Critical of how s2 happened and am trying to wrap my brain around that, k cool sue me, like the way they did royals at lola’s first wedding thanks, past rape is central to characterization, please for the love of god pretend that there’s an ~~instrumental~~ version of finding you by kesha, this is a combination of wildly melodramatic and very tongue in cheek
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-13
Updated: 2018-02-08
Packaged: 2019-03-04 10:52:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 68,981
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13363137
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crossingwinter/pseuds/crossingwinter
Summary: For years, Mary had dreamed that she was Queen of Scotland and that her husband died.  But they were dreams—if consistent ones.  She and Francis never got married, and she certainly was never a queen.  But when they decide to be friends again, the dreams change.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [La Reine Noire (lareinenoire)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lareinenoire/gifts).



> If we live in a world where DJT can get elected president, we absolutely live in a world where Henry II can get elected president and you know it. :cries_eternally: 
> 
> There is a general trigger warning for memories of rape in this fic. They don’t happen frequently, but they do happen.
> 
> Also what are ages even idk. I figure if Reign ages up Charles and Henry the way they fucking felt like it, I can do whatever the fuck I want.

> I know forever don't exist  
>  But after this life, I'll find you in the next  
>  So when I say "forever, " it's the goddamn truth  
>  I'll keep finding, finding you

 

_“Not again,” she called. He was standing alongside that boat of his, sanding. He smiled at her, his blue eyes shining at the sight._

_“Yes, again.” He kissed her. “And again, and again and again and again.” His lips were so soft, and he smiled into her mouth and took her breath away for a moment. He’d had such energy lately. It was such a contrast to the way he’d lain dying, so recently. He seemed to be bursting with energy now, when he worked, when they made love. It was as though the sunshine overhead seemed to radiate out of his heart and it made Mary’s own heart swell. “Shall we go back to bed?” he suggested. Mary pulled away from him, rolling her eyes._

_“Francis, we have more important things to do than make love, or build boats.”_

_“We,” he laughed at her, “You’ve been no help with the boat at all.” He swiped out at her with the cloth that he’d thrown over his shoulder and laughed and pulled her close again._

_“England is still a threat,” she told him. “The nobles are still uneasy after the coup.”_

_“It failed,” Francis said, turning back to the boat, seeming unconcerned._

_“The privy council has called for a meeting this afternoon.”_

_Francis gave her a crooked smile. “Well, you’d best start sanding or we’ll never make it.” He was not taking anything seriously—it was so unlike him, and yet Mary found herself entranced by it. After everything they’d gone through, that he could be so light…But she pulled herself back together._

_“Francis, we are king and queen. We have important matters to attend to.”_

_Francis ran his hand over the boat. “This…this is important.” There was a surprisingly serious edge to his voice now, given how playful he’d been a moment before. He took a step towards her and cradled her face between his hands. “And this,” he kissed her again, deeply and she relaxed in his arms. “Nothing is more important.”_

* * *

 

Mary woke. It took her a moment to remember that the sweetness of Francis’ kiss was a dream—that all of that was a dream. She glanced at her alarm clock, and stretched her toes into her blanket. It was Sunday, and she didn’t have to work today, didn’t have to do anything today. She could lie in her bed for a little while longer.

 _Don’t think of Francis,_ she told herself as she stretched her arms over her head. _He’s just a dream. He’s not the real Francis._

She could still feel his lips, still see his shining eyes.

She’d give herself ten minutes before she let herself be angry that she hadn’t woken up compartmentalized. She shouldn’t give herself that time. She should let herself focus on reality, not on dreams, and reality was that she and Francis didn’t talk—they barely even looked at one another. But in the dreams of forty-five years in the life of Mary, Queen of Scots, the ones where Francis was there, smiling, kissing, joking with her were rare. She could give herself ten minutes to let herself feel happy, and young, and in love.

It wouldn’t mean anything in ten minutes anyway.

* * *

 

The dreams had started the night after she was raped.

_“I know you don't want to be touched, that's alright.”_

The voice had been familiar when she’d woken up in her dorm room, but she hadn’t thought much of it. She’d taken enough psychology to know that her brain couldn’t just make up a voice—it drew from memory. It had been weeks before she’d realized it was the voice of Francis’ mother, who she’d met about five times before they’d fallen apart.

The dream had made her angry. Bad enough that she was raped, and now there was a familiar voice in the back of her mind telling her that no one could ever know. No one was allowed to know ever. They could not harm her, they could not hurt her, they couldn’t damage her.

But the voice was wrong, as was the dream-iteration of herself who had declared before a frightened court with the voice of a queen “ _I reassure you, that your King, and your Queen, remain untouched. These murderous traitors who invaded the castle tonight have achieved nothing. Have altered nothing. And will die—for nothing.”_

Mary remembered the faces of the men who did it, and went to the campus police to report them, dragging them through the mud just as surely as they’d dragged her.

For the most part, Mary did her best to keep her mind on them in the few minutes between sleeping and waking. For the most part, they were nothing a good shower couldn’t put from her mind.

But some dreams were easier than others—happy, playful ones like finding Francis by his boat, or ones where she was spending time with Greer, Lola, and Kenna. Other times, they were more painful. But there a difference between painful dreams, and dreams that woke her, shaking and trembling and triggered, being held down by men who hated her and running for her life.

“Are you listening, Mary?”

Catherine was giving her the sort of sharp look that Mary did her best to avoid ever since she had started working for her. Not because she was afraid of Catherine—she wasn’t afraid of Catherine—but because she knew that if she was getting that look, it was because she had failed at doing something so basic that Catherine was starting to wonder if Mary might be stupider than she had previously believed. Mary Stuart was many things, but stupid was not one of them. And she certainly didn’t want the First Lady to think she was.

“Sorry, ma’am,” Mary replied, sitting up straighter and shaking herself. She’d had a dream the night before. Her ears had been ringing from the moment she’d woken up, and she could still taste that tinny adrenaline in her mouth, could still feel hands on her throat and could see hatred in the eyes of the man who—

“What’s gotten into you? You’re not usually like this,” Catherine chided, and a part of Mary breathed more easily. Catherine was no longer looking at her as though she were stupid, or as though she might be bad at her job. Rather, there was a beady assessment in her eyes. And Catherine in the hear and now, forcing her to be present in the hear and now was enough to steady her beating heart.

Mary looked down at the pad of paper in her hands. She hadn’t been taking any notes on what Catherine had said. She couldn’t remember any of it. She couldn’t remember what the meeting she was having was even supposed to be about.

“Sorry, ma’am,” she said again. “It’s a…a strange day.”

Catherine’s eyebrows rose on her forehead. “Well, pull it together,” she said. “You’re stronger than that, and there’s a lot of work to get done on this.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Mary replied.

“You don’t even know what I’m talking about, do you?”

Mary looked down at the blank pad of paper again, and Catherine sighed. “I know it’s a difficult topic,” she said and her voice was uncharacteristically gentle. In fact, Mary could not think of a single time when Catherine de Medici’s voice had ever been gentle. It had been something that the news media had shredded her for during Henry Valois’ campaign: his wife was a shrew—a veritable stone-cold bitch. It was a miracle that they had as many children as they did. _At least she seems to care about the children,_ one sub-headline had read when someone had snapped a photo of her hugging Francis and stroking his hair when he’d joined them on the campaign trail.

With a rush, Mary remembered what it was that the meeting was supposed to be about, and what therefore must be running through Catherine’s head as she watched Mary sitting there, triggered and dazed. And she knew what Catherine was going to ask before Catherine asked it. “You don’t have to answer this question since it is an inappropriate one—and I will only ever ask you once, whether or not you choose to answer. Were you raped?”

_“These next moments of your life will either define you as a victim or as a powerful Queen, untouched by a failed assassination attempt. They will define who you are perceived to be, your place in history. Do not let them win. Trust me. Trust me and let me help you. Trust that I can get you through this because I swear to you that I can.”_

She nodded once, not entirely sure why, because if there was one thing she didn’t want the First Lady to know, it was that one night, several years before, she’d been held down and raped in the mud behind a dorm on campus. _Trust that I can get you through this because I swear to you that I can._ “If it ever gets too much, let me know,” Catherine said. “I know it can be hard, and we’re going to be diving right into it because someone needs to.”

Mary squared her shoulders. “Yes, ma’am,” Mary said, and her voice was firm. Catherine gave her an approving look, and this time, when she opened her mouth to speak, Mary was listening.

* * *

Some days it felt like Mary never left work, and today was such a day. “Any words of wisdom?” Margot asked Mary. They were standing on the lawn in front of the White House, and there was barbecue in the air as people swirled around them. It was a send-off party for Margot, who was about to head up to Cambridge for her Freshman year at Harvard.

“Don’t let anyone make a drink for you at a frat party,” Mary said sternly.

Margot heaved a sigh. “As if I get to drink, _period_. If there’s so much as a Buzzfeed article about me drinking, Dad will be down my neck so fast.” She gave Mary a look, and Mary wrapped an arm around the waist of Catherine’s youngest daughter. The two had gotten close during the campaign, and Mary would miss Margot when she was gone. She had a biting sense of humor that Mary enjoyed, and a good head on her shoulders, and the same sparkle to her eyes when she spoke that Francis had gotten at her age. She even had his blue eyes. _I hope that college doesn’t beat that sparkle out of you,_ she thought, but didn’t say. Those weren’t the words of wisdom she wanted to pass onto her.

“So I’m guessing that you already have heard the ‘don’t get photographed with a bong’ advice?” Mary teased instead.

Margot sighed and shook her head, then she imitated her Father’s booming voice. “No sex, booze, or drugs, young lady, or I’ll drag you back down to Washington and you’ll be a candy striper for the rest of your days.” She rolled her eyes. “What even _is_ a candy striper?”

“I have no idea,” Mary said. “But don’t pay too much attention to your dad. It’s your life—you deserve to live it.”

“I’ll try to remember that between classes.”

“Go to class. That’s another piece of advice.”

Margot gave her a withering gaze. “Thanks, Mary.”

“Avoid Ouija boards unless you want everyone saying that you have aspirations of being a witch like your mother,” was Mary’s next piece of advice.

That made Margot laugh. “I can’t believe someone thinks she wants to be a witch. Just because she believes that all the bad in the world comes from Mercury being in retrograde…”

“Keep your protective crystals close—you don’t want your mother to worry.”

“Now you’re just being ridiculous,” Margot said.

Mary smiled at Margot, and Margot’s eyes brightened and she pushed past Mary. “Give him to me!” she squealed, and Mary turned.

Francis was standing there, passing his toddler into Margot’s waiting arms. His eyes flicked to Mary for half a second before turning his attention fully back to Margot and Jean. He didn’t nod at her the way he sometimes did. It was as if he’d barely noticed her, as if he didn’t know her. How unlike Francis when first she’d met him, who hadn’t been able to take his eyes off her, who had seemed to gravitate towards her like she was the sun and he was in orbit around her.

Now, Francis represented so much pain to her—the pain of what had happened that rainy night in South Bend, the pain of him dying over, and over again in her dreams, from which she would wake up shaking and reminding herself that they weren’t in love, and that he was alive, and that she wasn’t the Queen of Scotland and he wasn’t the King of France. But there was some small part of her that twisted sadly when he looked at her long enough to recognize her, and then turned his attention away.

This was what they were now, and Mary turned away from the three of them and went to go find something to eat. She wished she could say she was used to it—but she wasn’t. Francis had been her first love, her first boyfriend, and the first year of their relationship—if turbulent at times—had been like something from a dream. Indeed—it had been very much like something in a dream, because it centered so intensely in the dreams she had where she was the queen of Scotland. But they had fallen apart, and she hadn’t spoken to him for years on end, only barely communicating with him after he and Lola had accidentally had a child together. And that had not changed when she’d begun working for his mother.

They avoided each other. And it was for the best, she thought. But sometimes, she caught glimmers of him in Margot’s glowing eyes, or in his youngest brother Hercules who was still living with his parents. And, of course, avoiding each other only worked so well when they were frequently at the same parties at the same time. And when she glanced over her shoulder and her eyes landed on him again, golden and smiling and chatting with Margot, she felt a small twinge of sadness.

 _As if I don’t do it to him, too_ , she admitted to herself as she loaded a little plate with pigs in a blanket and went off to find Kenna, who had arranged the party. She too followed their unspoken détente. She too ignored him as best she could at parties. She should be ignoring him now. He’d just caught her off guard, was all.

“Francis just got here,” she told Kenna when she found her.

Recognition flashed in Kenna’s eyes. “Did you talk to him?”

“Kenna,” Mary intoned.

“I’m just saying—you talk about it enough that I think you should.”

“He doesn’t want to. If he wanted to, he’d have done it already.”

“Like you have?” Kenna asked pointedly, before shaking her head disbelievingly.

“It’s for the best,” Mary told her.

“Is it?”

Mary glared at her, and Kenna shrugged, “I’m just saying—I think that you two should have some closure sex and—”

“He’s here with Lola’s child, Kenna.”

“He and Lola aren’t together,” Kenna said, parroting the words that Mary had repeated over and over again when Lola had gotten pregnant back to her. “He’s fair game.”

“And what if I don’t want that?” Mary demanded.

She looked back across the lawn to where Francis was standing with Margot and his son. He was smiling, and he’d always had such a lovely smile. Mary remembered the first time he’d smiled at her—remembered dreams of feathers falling overhead and recognition flashing in his eyes that maybe, just maybe…

Mary stuffed some food in her mouth and turned back to Kenna. She could keep a handle on those dreams, by god—she could after all these years. Trigger dreams were the only ones she let dominate her days, because the ship had always sailed by the time she woke up. But she refused to think about Francis falling in love with her when they were so very much decidedly not even talking to one another.

* * *

Catherine de Medici was a hard woman. It was one of the things that Mary liked best about her. She could be reliably hard. It had taken Mary a little while to understand it, to respect it even, but it was now one of the things she relied upon most at her job. Catherine was a perfectionist, which meant that when she saw something that was not working, she rolled up her sleeves and set her team to work.

Most people assumed that First Ladies couldn’t enact any sort of major policy change—because historically, they didn’t. They weren’t elected by the American populous, after all. So Catherine de Medici, eight months into her husband’s presidency, sitting down with her staff to re-examine the structure of federal of sexual assault and rape legislation was something that would get a lot of traction in the news—not least because it Catherine’s formidability would likely be at the center of any national conversation on the subject.

“We do need to focus in a bit more,” Nostradamus said, a week after Margot’s send-off, when the whole of Catherine’s staff had been in meetings on the subject for a full two and a half weeks. “Fix one piece of legislation first, and then go in for more once we’ve had some success with it.”

“You mean I can’t throw the whole thing out the window and start from scratch?” Catherine said dryly.

“I think it would make people uneasy—the idea that the laws are completely without merit,” he said.

“Because god forbid you tell the American people that they’re barely better than barbarians on some fronts. Do you think if I said that, Henry would have trouble being reelected?”

“Unfortunately, I think that’s likely,” Nostradamus replied, with a small smile. He had an uncanny knack for being able to tell what was coming politically. It had shocked nearly everyone that Henry Valois had won the general nearly a year before, and Nostradamus had been one of the few to hold out hope for it even when most of the polls showed him horribly behind. “Especially given that it was a tight election.”

Catherine shook her head. “Well, if it’s picking one battle to win the war, I suppose that’s how it will have to be, isn’t it? Any preferences?” she asked, looking around the office at her predominantly young, female staff. “Campus sexual assault? Standards of proof? Sentencing?”

Lola glanced at Mary, and Mary did her best to give her a meaningful look that wasn’t too meaningful.

“What?” Catherine demanded.

“Nothing,” Mary and Lola said at once.

“It’s not nothing,” Catherine said and her eyes were on Mary again with that same beady look that she’d given Mary the week before on the day that she’d worked out that Mary had been raped. But before she could open her mouth to continue, the phone on Catherine’s desk rang and she picked it up. “What is it? Oh, yes. Send him in.” She put the phone back on the cradle.

The door behind them opened and Lola and Mary glanced over their shoulders as Catherine said warmly, “Francis! When did you get back?”

“Just now,” he said, smiling a tired smile. His eyes never glowed during tired smiles, and Mary was glad of that, because she hated that sometimes she wanted to see his eyes glow the way he did in her dreams. He rounded the desk to kiss his mother’s cheek, and Mary saw Nostradamus discreetly leave the room. He’d been standing closer to the door and could leave discreetly. Mary was sitting too close to Lola to pull that off, so she steeled herself instead. “We were supposed to be in Raleigh until eight, but I was able to get away early. Thought I’d come say hello since I found myself in the neighborhood.”

“It was good of Senator Loyola to let you leave. I’m sure you’ll be sorely missed.”

Francis flushed. “I hope so, but I’m sure he’ll get by.” He smiled at Lola next. “How’s Jean?”

“If you’re free before the party starts, then we can fit in a quick visit with him,” Lola said. “He misses you.”

“And I miss him.”

Mary glanced at Catherine, and could practically read the look on her face. It was the same look that happened whenever Lola’s and Francis’ child was mentioned, the perpetual, _The media thinks I’m a shrew, but Francis can have a baby outside of marriage and it doesn’t affect the campaign in the slightest._ Catherine was fond of her grandson, at least. He had Francis’ golden curls, a fact that the news media had obsessed over.

Francis glanced at Mary and a ghost of a smile flitted across his lips that did not quite reach his eyes. “Hello Mary.”

“Francis,” she said, nodding to him. Catherine glanced between them, and then something shifted in her gaze as she looked at Mary again.

“I won’t keep you,” he said, inclining his head to his mother. “Just wanted to say hello.”

“Nonsense. You’re not keeping us. We’ll tackle all this later,” Catherine said getting up from behind the desk, but Francis was shaking his head.

_“I don’t want to hurt you. But I don’t want to repeat history.”_

_“Then don’t!” she pleaded, her voice bouncing off stone walls._

“I’ll see you tonight,” Francis said over his shoulder to his mother. “Since I got back in time, I should be able to make it in to the party tonight.” The door clicked shut behind him. Catherine glanced at Lola. “Oh, go off with him then. He’ll want to see your son. Mary—a word.”

Lola left, and Catherine gave Mary a look of appraisal. “Your breaking up with him had to do with what we spoke about the other day, didn’t it?”

_“I've had some time to think. I believe that we should lead separate lives.”_

“We agreed,” Mary said slowly, “That if I was going to work for you, we were not going to ever talk about my relationship with him.”

“Yes, but that was before—”

“So I will continue to not discuss it. It is of no consequence to my current position.” Mary’s voice was firm, and she sounded like the queen she was in her dreams. Mary had spent years compartmentalizing her dreams as best she could, keeping them separate from her daily relationships with people she dreamed were friends or enemies somewhere in a distant past, but now was an instance where she could feel it bleeding over, despite that resolution. It would help nothing if Catherine started prying, because Catherine was like a pit-bull who wouldn’t let go of something once she dug her teeth in.

Catherine sat back in her chair, and unless Mary was mistaken, there was a flash of approval in the First Lady’s eyes. “Is that all?”

“That’s all. Will you be at the party tonight?”

“Yes,” Mary said calmly.

“And your mother? We want to start laying the groundwork as soon as possible, and vocal state-level support is always useful.”

“I believe Governor de Guise will be there, yes.”

“Good. Find a way to get her to me, will you Mary?”

“Yes ma’am.”

* * *

Mary lived by herself in a small apartment in NoMa. It was, perhaps, bigger than she could afford, especially given her penchant to buy clothes that were far too expensive for her budget, but she liked it well enough and she was glad of the privacy—especially on days like that one, when she was at work early and had to be back at the White House for an event in the evening, and had only a few short hours to go home, power nap, shower, and prepare to look her absolute best in anticipation of a long night of alcohol, dancing, and—if Catherine had her way—convincing her mother to lend her voice in early support of Catherine’s political agenda.

Mary got home and threw herself on her bed, set an alarm for forty-five minutes later, and willed herself not to dream as she pressed her pillow over her eyes.

It did not work.

* * *

_“Well...You were planning on abandoning our marriage, flee France, and run off with my cousin, so...I no longer care what you do.” He was sitting in a bed, his face pale, his eyes bloodshot and his lipped cracked. She thought for a moment she might cry. Louis was what she wanted, wasn’t he? Louis, and Scotland, and forgetting about the way that they’d felt on her throat, between her legs, the way that Francis reminded her of them when he curled around behind her, trying to calm her because he was_ Francis _and not the protestant radicals who hated her and he only ever wanted her to be safe. She could still smell them, burning. She hoped they burned in hell forever._

_How she’d clung to the sound of his breath as he’d lain nearly dying. And now he did not care._

_He said that he would understand, that he would wait, however long it took, and yet he didn’t understand at all._

_It was like a slap. Francis, kind, brave, thoughtful Francis and the coolness of his gaze…_

* * *

Her phone buzzed in her hand and she opened her eyes, thanking the alarm. She hated that particular recurring dream. She was sure some psychotherapist would tell her that it was a projection of her guilt, that she’d hurt Francis while trying to recover herself. And she was sure that she had, but if it meant she was all right, that she was better, that she was stronger, or something…

 _Still better than the dreams where he dies,_ she thought, getting up and going to the bathroom and stripping off her blouse. She hated those the most, the ones where she clung to Francis’ corpse, as the light faded from his blue eyes, as he promised he loved her, as she wept until she didn’t have any tears left to weep. They were even worse than the ones where Elizabeth sent her to the headsman, and her son didn’t come to see her die, than the blade cutting through her neck and leaving her with nothing else to worry about—and she hated those dreams too.

Francis was alive. He was happy, if distant. And that was as much as she had a right to hope for for someone she’d dated briefly in college before everything went the way that it did.

And he’d be there tonight.

She turned on the shower and let it heat the room as she texted Kenna.

_Mary: Francis is making it in ultimately._

Kenna’s response was instantaneous.

 _Kenna:_ _Lola told me. Here for you._

Mary rolled her eyes.

_Mary: I don’t need you to be there for me. Just like…help me avoid him. It’ll be better for everyone._

She climbed into the shower, washed her hair and came out to two texts.

_Kenna: Always. Obviously._

_Kenna: But are you sure that’s what you want?_

Mary rolled her eyes and ignored the question that Kenna had now asked for the second time in two weeks.

* * *

The party was fabulous. They always were. It was Kenna’s forte, after all, throwing the best parties with the nation’s tax dollars. It was a white tie affair, tuxedoes and ball gowns and champagne flowing freely, and Mary was wearing not so much a little black dress as a long blue one, with a long string of pearls her mother had gotten her when she’d gotten the White House gig. “Pearls are a must for the White House,” Marie de Guise had told her when she’d accepted the position on Catherine’s staff, and Mary wore them every time and thought of her mother.

There was jazz music playing, and in one of the rooms, people were dancing to it, slowly swaying back and forth. She could hear President Valois’ booming laughter from the next room as he talked with members of his cabinet and, in yet another room, there was the piercing sound of Catherine’s voice.

But Mary did not go to either room. Instead, she found Kenna in the room with the dancing, and wrapped an arm around her friend’s waist. “It’s fabulous, Kenna,” she said.

“Isn’t it? I keep thinking I’ll do something boring by accident, but I rather think it’s better than anything that anyone else could come up with.”

“When you’re done with this administration, you’ll have a gig for life in party planning,” Mary said, and Kenna beamed at her. “Who wouldn’t hire you, with a President as a reference?”

“You,” Kenna said, pressing Mary’s nose, “are sweet. And definitely trying to have me keep you away from Francis.”

Mary rolled her eyes. “I’m perfectly capable of doing it on my own, but it’s easier with more pairs of eyes.”

“Did you ask Lola to help?”

Mary shook her head. She’d stopped doing that ages before, when Lola had told her that it was Francis who was her baby’s father. Mary had known that he would probably be a fixture in her life forever with that news, and had expected Lola to tell her they’d be getting married. Except that she hadn’t. “We agreed that we’d both raise him, but we’re not getting married. We’re not even together,” Lola had promised.

“Oh. That’s…modern,” Mary had said, trying not to notice the way that Lola looked at her like that, like she would care, like it was something that mattered. She and Francis hadn’t been together for years.

Kenna was giving her a look. “Look, I know you aren’t expecting her to play sides, but she would if you asked it. She’s on _your_ side, Mary.”

“There are no sides,” Mary retorted. “Not in this. Not anymore.” Not since Louis. Louis had broken Francis’ heart even more than Mary had. But Louis wasn’t a thing anymore either, except in those dreams where he was a duke and Francis was a king. She hadn’t thought of him in years, truth be told—probably because she dreamed of stabbing him through the gut.

 _Francis and I find each other again in those dreams anyway._ That was how she knew they were dreams—because she and Francis had decidedly not found each other again after she and Louis had broken up. It was the main comfort she had for herself when she woke up, and he’d died again, and was trying desperately to build up those walls around the dreams she so needed to properly compartmentalize.

“No sides?” Kenna asked, arching an eyebrow.

Mary recognized that look. “Kenna—”

But it was too late, and Kenna had spun her around and he was right behind her, _right_ behind her and Kenna hadn’t warned her.

“Mary!” Francis yelped as she was in his arms. The glass of champagne slipped from Mary’s hand and fell to the floor, shattering.

Francis pulled her away from the shards, then looked around, waving a hand to one of the servers, who nodded and disappeared to find a mop. “What sort of shoes are you wearing?” he asked her. Her skirt was long enough to hide her feet from view.

“Close toed,” she told him, and he nodded. “Sorry—Kenna just…I don’t know what got into her.” Mary looked around, but Kenna was already leaving the room, her hips swaying exaggeratedly, drawing the eyes of most of the men she passed as she no doubt intended.

She had always been like that—always. She never took no for an answer. And now here she was, after having _promised_ she’d help Mary stay away from him…

“Do you…want to dance?” Francis asked her awkwardly.

“I—” _It’s probably better if we don’t,_ she wanted to say. And maybe she would have, if it had been the dream with the feathers falling from the ceiling again, except in the dream he’d looked at her so coolly and said that he didn’t care what she did and she had hated that. “Yes. All right.” So she took his extended arm and he led her into the middle of the floor, one hand in his and the other resting on his shoulder.

It was impossible to avoid looking at him when they were dancing like this. She couldn’t look elsewhere, avoid his gaze because he was right there. So instead she found herself staring into his blue eyes for the first time in years.

“Mother told me about the bill,” he said quietly, his voice only barely carrying over the music. “Will you be all right?”

There had been a time when she couldn’t stand his touch, even if it was trying to be comforting, when the sound of his breath made her skin crawl. And now they were dancing to jazz music, talking about rape. No, not rape. _Her_ rape.

She made herself smile. “Thank you for asking,” she said quietly. “I should be fine.” Francis nodded, and opened his lips, but Mary cut him off. “You never told her?”

“What?”

“Catherine. She asked me about it earlier. About whether I’d been raped. I thought you might have told her.”

Francis’ face twitched ever so slightly. “No,” he said. “No, I didn’t tell her, or anyone. It wasn’t mine to tell. Especially after…after we broke up.”

They swayed back and forth, the drummer tapping a lazy beat that sounded almost like the rhythm of a heart. “Thank you,” she said at last. “I’m grateful for that.”

Francis didn’t say anything. She could see a thought bubbling behind his eyes. She couldn’t not. She couldn’t look away from them, so clear and blue and right there. But he didn’t say a word.

And that annoyed her.

“What?” she asked.

“Nothing,” he said.

“Don’t lie.”

“It doesn’t matter. It was years ago.”

“And yet it’s here right now. Tell me, Francis.”

Francis looked around the room. The song was ending, and partners were taking steps away from one another to clap for the musicians Kenna had contracted to perform. He took her arm and led her—not out into the party, but into the hallway that would take them into the West Wing.

“Where are you—”

“I don’t know where this conversation is going to go, Mary, so I’d rather it not happen in a place where one or both of us may say something we regret in front of hundreds of people my father is trying to impress, who we might ultimately also have to work with.”

He found an empty office and stepped inside, clicking on the lights and closing the door behind her. He turned to face her, slowly, his expression pensive, nervous, and Mary raised her eyebrows.

“What?” she asked him, crossing her arms over her chest.

But he didn’t respond, he was still thinking, and Mary had forgotten what it was like to watch Francis think, to watch him weigh his thoughts. Usually—or rather, when they’d been younger—he’d somehow made it seem quick while taking his thoughts deep into his heart and mulling them over, sometimes for days at a time. It was one of the things she’d liked so much about him—that she liked about him now, even as her own impatience was growing.

“I’m trying,” Francis said slowly, then he closed his mouth as if trying to catch those words back into it, but, aware that he was unable to do that, he pushed on, “to not make the same mistake that I made when I was nineteen and make it about me.”

Mary felt her eyebrows rise even higher up her forehead. “What does that mean?” she asked him slowly.

“After it happened,” he said slowly, “After you were raped…I made it about me. About my own guilt, about what I wanted from you. And I think I thought I was trying to take care of you, but I wasn’t. And maybe we would have fallen apart regardless of that, but I didn’t help at all.”

“That was years ago, Francis,” Mary said. “We were both young. And it’s not like I stayed with Louis.”

A muscle in the corner of Francis’ mouth twitched. “No,” he said, and she could hear the bite in his voice, the pain that she’d gone off and dated Louis after they’d broken up. “You didn’t. I guess that’s something to be—” but he cut himself off and shook his head. “Not relevant.”

“What is relevant, then? You haven’t actually gotten to your point.”

“It’s been seven years, Mary. What are we? Do you hate me or not?”

“I don’t hate you,” Mary said automatically. “I don’t think I could.”

“But you don’t like me,” Francis replied and he looked away, and perhaps it was because they’d been dancing, and staring into one another’s eyes for the first time in years, but Mary felt oddly bereft of his gaze. “Or at least, you don’t seem to want to. I just…I don’t know how to protect myself.”

“Protect yourself?” Mary asked slowly.

“No,” he said and he was looking at his hands, his lips twisted in a grimace.

“What does that mean?” He didn’t reply. “ _Francis_.”

“I’m trying not to make it about me.”

“You can’t ask ‘what are we’ and not have it be a little bit about you. We includes you.”

“Yes, but—” Francis looked at her again, and there was such an intensity in his eyes that it almost took Mary’s breath away, “That was always the problem, wasn’t it? We included me, but I made it only about me while pretending it was also about you. I thought I wasn’t doing that, but I was and—And I’m sorry. I made more pain for you when you were already in pain.” He made an odd motion, like he was trying to reach for her and then thought better of it. He was looking at her, so confused now, as though he’d lost the train of whatever thought he’d been hoping to bring to her attention.

Mary swallowed. “We aren’t anything,” she murmured at last. “We haven’t been in years. Does that answer your question?”

He looked down at his hands. “Not quite,” he said. “You work for my mother. You work with Lola. You’re my son’s godmother, for Christ’s sake. You’re more than just around. And we’re not anything, yes. But,” he took a deep breath, then shook his head.

“Francis,” she chided, annoyed again, and he jerked his head back up to look at her.

“Even as I think the thoughts, I hate the way they sound,” he said. “So I’d rather not say them because I don’t want to be no better than I was when I was nineteen.”

“Francis, that’s stupid. I can’t very well react if you don’t let me react to some—”

“I don’t know if I can bear the coldness, Mary.” It burst out of him. “If we aren’t anything—fine. I can accept that. That’s no different, I suppose, and you have a right to your life. But sometimes I see you and—and…and before we were anything, we were friends. And now we’re not even that and I don’t like that. Do you?”

Mary went still. It wasn’t that she particularly liked the way that Lola looked between them, not wanting to cause either of them pain, or asking Kenna to help her avoid him at work parties, but even before that—feeling herself stiffen when he came into a room—not because of him or the sound of his breath anymore, but because of the looming awkwardness that was their continued exposure to one another…

It was so unlike them—not to even talk about it. Why had she thought that was a good idea? Even if they had come out of it deciding to lead separate lives, at least _talking_ to one another should have been the first step. Had she been so afraid of what he’d say? And what would he say? _What are we?_

He saw that in her face. She didn’t bother hiding it from him. “I get it that we’re broken up. And honestly, that’s fine with me. I promise. It’s been seven years now, and if your seven years have been anything like mine, I can safely say you’re not the same person I was in love with—and I’m not the same person you…you dated.”

“I loved you,” she said fiercely.

“I don’t want to put words in your mouth or to your experience.”

“I did love you, Francis,” she repeated. “Don’t doubt that.”

He closed his eyes. “Regardless,” he began, but she cut him off.

“No, not regardless. You don’t want to put words to my experiences and emotions—fine. Don’t disregard them either. And don’t pretend that I’m the only one who’s been cold for the past seven years, because you have been too.” His mouth opened in surprise.

“I’m not the same person you loved,” he corrected at last, and Mary nodded, not softening her glare. “And I’ve been cold as well. I acknowledge that fully. I was trying to protect myself, as I’m sure you were, but I was cold as well. Can you honestly say that you like what we are now? If you can, I understand and I’ll never say another word. I promise. But I just…”

“Just what?”

He didn’t reply.

“Francis, if you keep cutting yourself off like that, you make it about yourself by virtue of withholding your thoughts from me. Open communication is how you keep it from being about you because it keeps you from holding all the power in the conversation. Otherwise I stand here and—”

“I just don’t believe you are. I don’t believe you can be, Mary. Not because of me, or what I meant to you. But because of you. You don’t just not care. It’s part of what I love about you.” He froze, and Mary felt her eyes widen. “You know what I mean,” he muttered, rubbing a hand through his hair.

“I do,” Mary said softly. _It’s part of what I loved about you._

It was an oddly steadying thought. She looked at him, and he looked at her, and she felt the angry heat in her heart begin to die down.

She swallowed.

_“Well...You were planning on abandoning our marriage, flee France, and run off with my cousin, so...I no longer care what you do.”_

But that was the dream Francis, not the real one. She snorted, and Francis frowned.

“What?” he asked.

“A strange thought from a dream,” she said, and shook her head.

_“I will be at your side. As a friend.”_

She sighed. “So you want to be friends?”

_“As a friend? Is that what we are now?”_

“I don’t care,” Francis said quickly. “I just want definition. I shouldn’t hurt when you greet me distantly, but I find that I do. And if that’s how it is, then it’s how it is but I need at least to know. And maybe it’s that we throw everything out and start fresh—completely from scratch—”

_“Well…it’s a good place to start.”_

“I’d like that,” Mary cut him off.

“You do?”

“Yes,” she said. “I don’t see why not. It’s not like we’ve known each other for the past seven years.”

“I mean everything,” he said. “College, every fleeting moment between now and then—all of it.”

Mary extended a hand. “Mary Stuart. It’s lovely to meet you.”

Slowly, a smile spread across Francis’ face. She hadn’t seen him smiling at her in years and she found herself smiling too.

“Francis Valois,” he said.

“Valois…is that…”

“Not how it should be pronounced, but I grew up in Illinois, so what are you going to do?” he snorted. “I suppose somewhere back there it was French.”

“Americans,” she said shrugging. “Well, it was good to meet you, Francis. But I’m sure that your mother is looking for me, and if she’s not, then I’m sure _my_ mother is looking for me.” He gave her a curious look, and she added, more seriously, “Let’s cool off. Give it space. Not force anything.”

He inclined his head and Mary left the office. Behind her, she heard him click off the lights and close the office door behind him. When she reached the party, she glanced over her shoulder. He was ten feet back, moving more slowly than she was, watching her go. He gave her a hopeful smile that she couldn’t help but return as she stepped out into the sound of chatter and jazz.

“So? Did you bang it out?” Kenna asked, looping her arm through Mary’s.

“I’m going to kill you,” Mary told her friend.

“That bad?”

“No. It was fine. Good, maybe, even. But I told you to _warn_ me and then you go pushing me at him.”

“Sometimes we’re the worst at knowing what we need,” Kenna said happily.

“You most of all,” Mary muttered darkly.

“So? If you didn’t—”

“We’re not talking about this here.”

“Fine,” Kenna replied. “Tomorrow at Greer’s for drinks, then.”

“Mary! There you are!” Catherine called, and Mary pulled herself away from Kenna.

“Ms. De Medici,” Mary said, pulling a smile on her face, and then, “Hello, mother.” She looked between them both, trying to gauge each’s mood. They weren’t particularly fond of one another, and Mary wasn’t quite confident in either to play nicely, even if they had a shared agenda.

“Mary,” her mother said, leaning forward and kissing her daughter on each of her cheeks. “The First Lady was just telling me how vital you are in helping her prepare her attack on congress.”

“I wouldn’t call it an attack,” Mary began.

“I would,” Catherine said. “Anything where you try to make men relinquish any power they hold is nothing short of war. And your daughter is instrumental as ever, Marie.”

Mary’s mother smiled. “She’s made of stern stuff,” she said fondly, brushing a loose hair from Mary’s cheeks. “She knows how to give back whatever’s dealt to her.”

Out of the corner of her eye, Mary saw Francis speaking with Secretary Montgomery. She’d had the distinct sensation that he had been watching her just moments before, but now he seemed thoroughly engaged in conversation.

“Mary,” Catherine said and Mary looked at her.

“Forgive me,” she said at once, “A little too much to…”

“I suppose that’s what I get, so many young people on staff,” Catherine said. “Either they can’t hold their liquor or they drink too much of it.”

“I’m not that young, and I can hold my liquor just fine,” Mary said, rolling her eyes.

“It may serve us well not to talk shop at a party, anyway,” Marie de Guise replied, amused.

“Isn’t that what we do at these things? Talk shop? What else am I supposed to do? Entertain?”

“I believe that’s historically what First Ladies do,” Mary said, half-smiling, “But I’ve always been one for shattering what’s expected of women in power roles, so I say do as you please.”

“This is why I like having her on my team,” Catherine said, smiling into her champagne.

“And why I’m jealous that we have strong taboo on nepotism so that I can’t hire her,” Marie replied.

“You should hear Henry complain about that. Having Francis work for Loyola instead of in the West Wing drives him mad, but the optics of having his son that close to him would never work.”

“Francis wants to go into politics?” Marie asked.

“I think so,” Catherine replied. “His heart’s too big for it, in truth, but that might actually make him electable. We’ll see, I suppose. I’m just waiting for this one to go into Congress. She’s old enough, now, and Maryland is just there. It would be good to oust Knox if we could help it, that sexist pig.”

“I’m fine where I am,” Mary said, “Though I thank you for the vote of confidence.”

“Maybe after the midterms,” Marie said, giving Mary a knowing smile. “You can always move, without even changing jobs. Bethesda’s nice and close.”

“I’m sure the last thing Mary wants is her mother telling her how to live her life,” Catherine said, “God knows Claude is resistant to any advice I give her. If only they stayed small forever.”

“You have a grandchild now if you want small,” Marie pointed out. “I’ll be waiting a while for one of those, I suspect.”

“Ok!” Mary said loudly. “You found the one topic I wanted you to discuss less than my running for Congress. I need significantly more alcohol in my system if you’re going to start talking about my empty womb,” and she pulled herself away from the two of them.

She found Lola sitting on a bench by herself. “I need more alcohol,” Mary told her and Lola’s eyebrows went up.

“Does that seem wise?”

“Wisdom has nothing to do with it,” Mary said, grabbing Lola’s hand.

“I was waiting for…” Lola began but Mary was already dragging her away from the bench and Lola muttered, “Never mind,” and she let Mary lead her to the bar where, thankfully, the good bartender was more than able to make her a _very_ stiff drink.

* * *

_“I need time, Francis.”_

_“What does that mean?”_

_“I do not know. I just—” It was all happening so much, so quickly. And he was sitting there, his eyes sorrowful, guilty. He blamed himself, he said—did she blame him? She didn’t want to, but did she? She wanted to cry, but was determined to shed no more tears over this. That, at least, she could do. Couldn’t she?_

_Francis took a deep breath, and there was pain dripping from every word coming from his lips. “I love you, Mary. I love you more than anything in the world.”_

_“I know,” Mary said, her own voice trembling now. “I—”_

_“Do you need time from me? Is that what you’re saying? Am I making it worse?”_

_Mary closed her eyes._

_She could hear him breathing._

_Her heart stopped for a moment._

It’s not him. It’s not him, it’s Francis, it’s Francis, it’s

 _She hardened herself, preparing herself to say the words._ I think that it’s best if we lead separate lives. _She even got almost as far as taking the breath required to support the words but she felt the bench shift beneath her as he stood. “I’m shall ride to Reims,” she heard him say and his voice was thick as though he was trying not to cry. “There is much,” she heard him swallow, “Much and more I have to pray for. I shall leave the best of my men here, and Bash will be in full command of them. You’ll be safe here, Mary, I swear it. No one will harm you ever again so long as I live. And if…if you have any need of me, send for me and I’ll return immediately. I expect to be gone at least until November.”_

_She opened her eyes again and watched as he retreated through the corridor. She half expected him to look back at her, and he paused as if preparing to do so, but ultimately did not._

_Time._

_And, perhaps more importantly, space._

_She was relieved. It was as though he’d known what it was she was going to ask, and perhaps when he came back it would all be done, and they could move on, live separately. And yet… if she was relieved why then did she feel as though the world was ending all over again?_

* * *

Mary’s head was killing her.

She winced as she opened her eyes, turning to look at the digital clock on her bedside table.

She’d had too much to drink last night. Champagne did that, she’d learned that early on, but it had gotten the better of her. She remembered the start of the night, Kenna, and Catherine, and—

And Francis.

Or had she dreamed that?

But no, she couldn’t have. She’d had one of the dreams last night.

“ _I shall ride to Reims.”_

She frowned.

That was different.

How many times had she dreamed Francis swearing never to leave her side again, of watching him grow angrier and angrier as she grew closer and closer to Louis.

Reims was new.

Probably because she hadn’t dreamed that conversation in the office with Francis last night, and so her subconscious had changed her dreams up on her. That, she supposed, was something.

It wasn’t as though she _enjoyed_ the dreams where they fell apart. Especially, given how everything had happened with Louis, because most of them somehow centered on her choosing Louis over Francis which was stupid beyond reason and felt like some contrived and unnecessary drama on the part of her subconscious. And it wasn’t as though she could, in good conscience, enjoy the dreams where she and Francis were happily and pristinely in love, either. Those tended to leave her feeling bereft until she’d at least had coffee.

She looked at her phone and began scrolling through the messages that had come in overnight.

_Marylanders_

_Kenna: So no one forgets—drinks at Greer’s tonight. Mary has things to tell us._

_Greer: What sorts of things? I need to know so I know what alcohol to have available._

_Kenna: The kind with blond hair and blue eyes and ~~history~~_

_Greer: Mary what happened?!?!!?!?_

_Lola: I’m putting Mary in a cab home. She’s very drunk._

_Greer: Did she say anything?_

_Lola: Nothing that bears repeating._

Mary rolled her eyes at the thread. So she definitely hadn’t dreamed that conversation with Francis, no more than she’d dreamed telling Kenna she’d talk about it at Greer’s tonight.

She put her phone back down and turned her face into her pillow and groaned. It had been a _very_ long time since she’d let herself get drunk like that. Probably not since Freshman year, given how aware she always was of how much she drank after that rainy night. Not that she’d been drunk when it had happened. No, she had been horrifically sober—enough to remember each and every detail, made all the sharper by her adrenaline. But she never wanted to be in a position where she wasn’t in complete control ever again.

Right now all she wanted to do was to melt into her bed in hopes that the melting process would dilute some of the ache in her head and the heaviness in her limbs.

 _It feels like after Francis died._ She paused at that thought, then rolled her eyes. Francis was not dead. That _was_ a dream. And comparing a hangover to the feeling she had when she woke up weak and weeping and reminding herself that he wasn’t dead and it wasn’t even _him_ and she didn’t even love him—well it felt a bit in poor form.

Francis was very much alive. And, apparently, they were going to be friends again.

Friends. With Francis. She’d been friends with him only briefly before they’d started dating at Notre Dame. What would friendship with him even mean? Nodding and smiling and small talk at parties? Texting memes to one another? Did she even still have his number?

She opened up the contacts app in her phone and searched for his name. There he was. The picture next to it must be what was synced to his Facebook profile. She’d unfollowed him years before, not particularly wanting more updates of his life than she needed, but they were still Facebook friends. It was a good picture—him in sunglasses with Jean, smiling.

So this was what Kenna had meant when she’d said, “He’s not even my type and my ovaries are exploding.”

She began typing, _Is this still your number?_ and hit send. Then she closed her eyes and willed herself to go back to sleep, knowing that it was unlikely given that her head was hurting this way. Maybe she should get up and find water. And food? Weren’t you supposed to eat when you were hungover? Wasn’t that supposed to help?

Her phone buzzed in her hand.

_Francis: Yes. Morning. How are you holding up?_

_Mary: Was I that gone last night?_

_Francis: By the end of it, yes._

Mary groaned again, and closed her eyes.

_Mary: Well, I’m too hungover to think of a good response to that._

_Francis: Drink water. I promise it makes the moving worth it._

_Mary: I’ll blame you if it doesn’t._

She did get up and made her way into the kitchen. She drank two full glasses of water, downed three ibuprofen, and found a granola bar because she didn’t think she could stomach anything more than that and pushed it into her mouth, chewing slowly.

Then, feeling maybe a little bit better, she crawled back into bed.

* * *

_“Court is quieter without the King,” Louis said, coming to stand by her. Mary glanced at him._

_“Yes,” she agreed. “Or perhaps it is quieter because I am quieter. I find I haven’t the taste for parties these days.”_

_“No, I imagine not,” he said. He turned his goblet of wine between his fingers. “But what matters is that you are at peace.”_

_“You make it sound like I am dead.” She tried to sound playful, but did not manage to hide the sharpness in her tone._

_“I only meant peaceful,” Louis responded quickly, looking chagrinned. “You survived. You live. You deserve peace.”_

_Mary shook her head. Peace. Peace while there was strife, while Protestants and Catholics struggled with one another, with the ramifications of Francis’ decisions. And now he had gone off to Reims and left her here to deal with it. At least Catherine stood at her side, when her husband would not. She felt anger boil in her._

You asked him for space _, she told herself._ No…you asked him for time. Not space.

But you were going to ask him for space. To lead separate lives.

You could call for him, send a rider and bid him return before November. He would come. You didn’t ask him to abandon his kingdom.

But do I wish to see him?

_“I do,” she agreed. “And if peace isn’t given to me, I shall make it.” She paused. “I haven’t properly thanked you. For helping me find them.”_

_“No thanks are needed,” he said simply. “It was my pleasure to help you. Anyone would have done it.”_

_“No, I don’t think so.” Francis wouldn’t have. He’d have tried to keep her from it. To protect her. He said he’d done everything to protect her from his sins, and yet here they were._

_“Well then, it was an honor.”_

* * *

This time when she woke, her head felt much better. The dream, though…it confused her.

Louis had been in it, but it was that same strange…different that the dream she’d thought she’d had last night had been too.

Ordinarily, when she dreamed of Louis like that, she shrugged it off quickly. Their breakup had been… spectacular, and they’d neither of them wanted anything to do with one another after that. It had been quite the sting to her pride—that she had left Francis for his distant cousin, and then that Louis had left her for _her_ distant cousin. At least she’d never met Elizabeth—but still. It had made her understand Francis’ pain a little better as she’d sat there, humiliated by her cousin. In any case, Louis wasn’t like Francis, where he’d swung back into her life through mutual friends and, ultimately, family. He was gone. But even so, she’d dreamed of him the way she’d dreamed of Francis—only with fewer moments of unbridled joy and more moments of confusion and—sometimes—betraying him and stabbing him through the gut with her own hands.

So dreaming of him while Francis was gone—when Francis had never _been_ gone before was confusing. Especially because the first text she saw on her phone was from Francis.

_Francis: Hope you’re feeling better and the hangover didn’t take your head off._

She read the words twice. He didn’t know about her dreams, and he certainly didn’t know about the ones where she ended up with a sword chopping through the sinews in her neck, either.

_Mary: Not this time. Went back to sleep and am now almost human again._

She put her phone away, got dressed, and went to the gym, where she kickboxed at a bag for forty five minutes before taking a long shower. Only then did she almost feel like it was a normal Saturday. Normal…except for the lack of information coming out of Catherine’s office. Catherine, notorious workaholic that she was, rarely was silent even on weekends.

Mary frowned into her phone, then texted Lola.

_Mary: Is Catherine being weirdly quiet today?_

_Lola: She’s spending the day with Francis, so we have him to thank for the reprieve._

_Lola: How are you getting to Greer’s?_

_Mary: Split a Lyft? Who’s babysitting?_

_Lola: Francis is fathering. I’ll swing round your place around 6?_

_Mary: Perfect._


	2. Chapter 2

Greer’s was one of the few bars that Mary went to that she actually liked—a quiet place with comfortable seating which seemed designed much more for quiet groups who wanted to stay in one place for a very long amount of time than for raging dance parties. People liked alcohol, Greer had learned, and maybe her society-minded parents thought that marriage would give her security, but Greer had learned that financial independence was the only security she particularly wanted or needed.

Greer’s bar had become the hub of their friendship in the past few years—especially since Lola had had Jean and Greer had had Rosie.  A place where neither of them was a mother, where Kenna wasn’t on the prowl, and where Mary could be around all her closest friends at once was exactly what all of them needed at least twice a month.  And so twice a month, the Marylanders ended up there, with a plate of nachos and a bottle of Kentucky bourbon. 

“That’s it?” Kenna asked, looking disappointed as she raised a very loaded nacho chip to her lips.  “You’re going to be friends again?”

“It’s not that exciting.  You’re the one who made it sound like it was bigger than it is,” Mary told her.

“You came out of wherever you were and practically yelled at me.  I assumed that it was big,” Kenna said incredulously.  “I assumed there was at least _some_ dick involved.” 

“It is big,” Lola said, and Mary choked on her bourbon as Kenna snorted.  Lola gave each of them a look.  “Well—it is.  You’ve barely spoken to each other for years, and now you’re going to try to change that.  That’s a big deal for anyone.”

“Yes, but she’s not trying to get him into bed,” Greer pointed out.

“And Francis is a good friend to anyone.  Trying to recreate a friendship with him is a victory in itself,” Lola insisted stubbornly.  “I’m happy for you, Mary.  For both of you.”

“And yourself,” Kenna pointed out.  “You don’t like being in the middle of it, do you?”

Lola protested.  “I am not in the middle of it,” she gave Mary a defensive look that Mary saw right through.

“It doesn’t matter,” she said.  “That’s all of it, all right?  All of mine to tell.  Francis and I are… texting, apparently.”

He hadn’t replied since earlier in the day, but knowing that he was with his mother and then his son meant that Mary didn’t think he was ignoring her.  He was focusing on the people who actually mattered in his life, not just…whatever she meant to him.  Except that was wrong.  Because they’d decided that they were to be friends.  He was focusing on family now.  Friends would come at a different time.

“Just so you know,” Kenna said, “Because I know you haven’t dated anyone in a while.  Texting is what people call pre-dating these days.  So if you’re not _texting_ Francis, best say something else.”

Mary glared at Kenna.  “This,” she said, “is all your fault.”

Kenna shrugged, smiled, and took a sip of her drink.

“So?  How was the rest of it last night?” Greer asked.  “For those of us who have to work honest jobs for a living.”

Several hours later, Mary was putting her three friends in cabs.  She’d not had nearly as much to drink as they had—not after the night before—which had meant each of the rest of them had had more than their usual share. 

When she closed the door on Lola’s cab, she texted Francis again.

_Mary: I’m sending Lola home a little worse for wear.  You may not be off the hook just yet._

She saw him start to type, then stop.  Then start again.

_Francis: I’ll confess to being curious about what drunk Lola is like.  She doesn’t usually come back worse for wear._

_Mary: Have you never seen her?  She’s very giggly.  And more direct than usual._

_Francis: Are you home safe?_

_Mary: About to get in a cab._

_Francis: Text me when you do.  I know you’re out late._

She rolled her eyes.  She was more than able to fight off assailants at this point in her life—not that she was expecting an attack of any sort.

But she did text him when she got home because it wasn’t worth the argument when it was past midnight on Saturday night.  Not this fresh into their friendship.  She’d figure out a way to kindly hint to him to buzz right off with that sort of nonsense.  She could take care of herself.

* * *

_His lips were on hers, his hands were in her hair, and her heart was singing.  This, she thought as he helped unlace her corset and as she tugged his undershirt over his head, was how they were meant to be—just the two of them, the world at the door._

_She lost herself in his lips, the touch of his hands, the way he felt as they fell onto the bed and his chest pressed against her, his beating heart, his living lungs just above her.  Life.  He was alive, and she was alive, and this was how they were supposed to be, from now until death._

_Nostradamus was wrong.  He was_ wrong _.  Francis would live forever._

_She reached up and cupped his chin in her hands as she looked deep into his eyes._

_But then the dream shifted and the room was dark, and it wasn’t Francis over her at all, it was an angry face of a man she hated burned into her eyes and she screamed loudly enough to wake her up, and sobbed into her pillow because it had been a good dream, it had been until it hadn’t been._

_She clung to her bedding, sobbing, glad that Francis wasn’t there, curious enough to be hurt when she told him the truth of it.  He was gone in Reims, and that was for the best.  If she dreamed that their love turned into…_

_Her skin was cold and clammy, her breathing shallow as she tried to think of something—anything—else._

_When the sky began to lighten, she climbed from the bed and began dressing herself.  She would go for a walk on the grounds, she thought, or perhaps go for a long ride.  Do something that would make her forget._

* * *

Today’s was a light trigger—a trigger through a trigger through a trigger.  On a comparative level, the logical detached part of her mind told her that this was not as bad as the dreams where she was actually reliving the night through her subconscious, pinned to the floor of her and Francis’ bedchamber.  But that rarely made her feel better.

What made her feel better was the fourteen emails in her inbox from Catherine, asking—no—telling her to come in on a Sunday.  She spent the day with Catherine and Nostradamus, sitting on the floor of the First Lady’s office, scouring voting records for every single man in congress to see what their voting history for various women’s issues were.

“I don’t see why I’m not also looking at the women’s voting records,” Mary pointed out.

“Oh, we’ll get to them,” Catherine said.  “I’m trying to see just how much of congress I’m going to have to threaten and blackmail my way into controlling.  And don’t look at me like that.  Marlborough absolutely pulled a knife on Guthrie last year and no one reported on it, but I swear the culture of that place hasn’t developed past the eighteen fifties.  They could do with a little threatening.”

“And if you don’t have to worry about being elected, why not,” Mary said.

“Precisely.  Someone should put the fear of god in them, and it won’t be Henry.”

“Do you think they’ll turn the budget vote around?”  That was where the President and his team were currently mired with Congress.  As a team, they had decided they would wait until the budget wrangling was over before submitting the bill to Congress.  They didn’t want it to share the news cycles with President Valois’ apparent struggles with Congress.

“No,” Nostradamus said, not looking up from his computer.  “Henry will try, of course, but I don’t think that he’s got enough votes on board for it, and he’s still railing against Loyola because the stubborn old coot is too leftist for his own good.  Makes Henry look weak, not even being able to wrangle the left-most wing.”

Catherine looked positively gleeful at his words.

“You like him seeming weak?” Mary asked.

“Mary,” Catherine said, “It has nothing to do with my husband’s weakness and everything to do with what we know about Congress for _this_ piece of the agenda.  It allows us to be clever and get what we want done _done_.”

“And the voting populace was worried about you as First Lady,” Mary said, rolling her eyes.

“I still don’t understand that.  I was always going to be effective in the role.”

“I think the American people might argue that you’re not effective if you don’t care if your husband is weak.”

“If my husband is weak, he’s weak.  And there are too many Americans for me to placate all of them.  I’d sooner give them what they need, rather than what they want.  You’ll understand if you ever have children.”

Mary thought of James, the little boy she’d dreamed of holding in her arms for only a few short weeks before she was dragged off to prison.  Then she thought of the miscarriages, and uncomfortably, of Francis.

She turned back to her computer and began going through voting records from the last session of congress.  “Loyola really likes throwing his party’s votes, doesn’t he?”  Mary asked.

“Self-righteous man,” Catherine said dryly.  “Though precocious.  If you look at his record from twenty years ago he had the right idea then, which means that he probably has the right idea now.  And if Francis isn’t going to get a grip on his bleeding heart, the least he can do is work for someone who’s been using his bleeding heart in the senate for the past twenty years.”

“I suppose my mother would say something similar of my working for you.”

“I know she does,” Catherine said.  “I’m not exactly fond of your mother, but I know for a fact that that’s exactly how she views this, which is how she can bear your working here and not in Annapolis with her.  And she’s right.  You can learn plenty from her, but I daresay you’ll learn more from me.”

Mary left the office in the late afternoon.  She went to the gym, called her half-brother, and cooked herself dinner.  Then, tired from two late nights, and a day’s work, she let herself go to bed early, knowing she’d be up at five the next morning.

* * *

_That night there was music, and dancing, and food, and drink to celebrate the return of the king, but Francis wore the same simple dark doublet he’d worn upon his arrival.  He and Mary danced once, mostly for the show of the court, but the whole time his gaze was distant, and when the song was done he returned to his seat.  He did not drink wine, and barely ate food, and, when Mary noticed him trying to slip away, she followed him._

I shouldn’t do this, _she thought,_ I should relish the distance.

_And perhaps she would have—if there was not something so obviously wrong with Francis._

_She followed him into the bedchamber they’d once shared and stopped short.  He’d had the furniture moved.  The bed was further from the door, from the fire, and closer to the window, and his dresser now stood where she’d been held down on the floor.  Chairs, and sofas, and tables—all were in different places, if they hadn’t been removed completely._

_It was jarring._

_“Francis,” she said, her voice low as she closed the door behind her.  He looked at her with that same distant gaze.  “Are you sure you’re feeling well?”_

_“Quite well, Mary,” he replied, his voice overly light.  He did not step closer to her.  Instead, he sat down in a chair by the fire, watching her closely.  She came and sat down opposite him._

_She struggled for words.  It had been hard to talk to Francis right after it happened, but this was something else entirely.  Now it wasn’t that she was at a loss for words, that she didn’t know what to say to him—it was that she suspected that anything she did say would have to travel so very far to reach him.  “Were your prayers…” she didn’t know how to finish the question and looked down at her hands, folded neatly in her lap as she did._

_“They were,” he said.  “I’ve had much time to think and reflect.”_

_“Oh.  That’s.  That’s good.”_

_Francis sighed and the expression on his face was the first time he’d seemed to be truly Francis since he’d arrived.  “Let’s not pretend,” he said.  “I know it’s difficult, and I hope that your time here has been peaceful and restorative.  But Mary—I think it would be better if we led our lives separately.”_

_She gaped at him.  Was that not what she herself had been planning to ask him?  So why did it devastate to hear the words coming from Francis’ lips?_

_“Why?” was all she could think to ask._

_Francis closed his eyes.  “It’s better not to say.”_

_“Better not to say, as it was better not to say why you were leaving that night?  Don’t lie to me, Francis.  Don’t you dare—”_

_“Because I am damned, Mary,” he said and his voice was harder than she’d ever heard it, his eyes burned blue when they looked at her.  “I could pretend not to be, could convince myself that if I could just…extricate myself from it all then everything would be all right when you’ve had time to heal and we could live happily ever after.”  He swallowed.  “But there is no happily ever after, Mary.  There can’t be.  We’ll be together only so long as we live on this earth, and when we die, god willing, you shall be in heaven.  I, however, can only be damned.”_

_Mary gaped at him.  He gave her a sad smile.  “You see?  Even you can’t contradict it.  You are the most stubborn, brave, thoughtful person I know, but even you know that patricide will mean damnation for my eternal soul, and no amount of penitence will cleanse me.  So you see—it’s for the best.  You deserve…nothing but happiness, Mary.  I would not have you waste your time on a man such as me—especially not when it is my own sins that have brought this hell into your life.  At least this way you can be rid of one more thing to cause you pain.”_

_He was watching her with his sad eyes, but there was something there, a flicker she’d seen before—the gaze he’d looked at her with before he’d ridden out and the protestants had come into the castle.  Except now it was as though he would never look at her again._

_She felt hot and cold all at once, and too much was happening in her head and heart to truly understand everything.  So she settled on the one thing she could think of.  “Only God can know what will become of your soul, not you.  God is merciful for those who repent, and it is in God’s name that a king protects his people.”_

_“I wasn’t a king, and he was my father,” Francis said dully.  “I had thought of that too—that perhaps God would understand if he knew what damage my father could do, was already doing.  But that was a balm to ease the pain of knowing I damned my eternal soul to hell.  Mary, I thank you for caring, but it’s not a matter that can be debated or reasoned out of.  Do not worry for me.  I am far more concerned with your happiness than my own.  Have you been all right?”_

_“Don’t do that,” Mary said, aghast._

_“Do what?”_

_“Whatever it is you’re doing—trying to make me forget what you just said, to put it from your mind.  I thought I might be nearly happy, and then you come back like this—and I may have been furious with you, Francis, but this?  This is not you—nor can it make me happy.”_

_Francis closed his eyes, and smiled.  “I wish that were true.  I really do.”_

* * *

Mary checked her phone when she got out of the shower after her kickboxing lesson at the gym to find a message from Lola.

_Lola:  In the spirit of your and Francis now being friends, want to join us for dinner with Jean tonight?_

Mary stared at her phone, feeling her throat tighten.  She’d never actually seen Francis around Jean—except, of course—in dreams.  In dreams…she knew he loved his bastard son, had even seen him curled up on the bed asleep with him and Lola, looking so very peaceful while her life was falling apart. 

 _If he goes to Reims, does that mean that never happens?_ she wondered.  The Francis she was dreaming about now was so confusing.  Did this all mean that the other dreams shouldn’t matter anymore? 

Did she really want to see Francis today while the dream was so fresh?

Did she dare wait to see what her unconscious mind threw at her tonight?

_Mary: Just finished at the gym.  If the offer still stands, sure.  If not, another time._

Lola replied instantly.

_Lola: We’re ordering Chinese.  What do you want?_

* * *

“I don’t want broccoli,” Jean complained.

“We don’t always get what we want,” Francis said, rubbing his son’s head.  “And right now, that means you eat your broccoli.”

“Mary doesn’t have to eat her broccoli,” Jean pointed out desperately.  He’d been so excited to see her when she’d shown up.  Both his father _and_ Mary on the same night was more than he’d ever expected.  It had never happened before.

Francis glanced at Mary and Mary knew what she had to do.  She reached forward with her fork and stabbed a piece of broccoli with it.  She brought it without a moment’s hesitation to her lips and bit down.  “I don’t have to eat my broccoli,” she said as she chewed.  “But I _want_ to eat my broccoli.  It keeps me healthy.  You don’t want to get sick, do you?”

Jean gave her a look like he was being betrayed on all sides.  He huffed and grabbed a piece of broccoli and stuffed it into his mouth.  “Fine,” he said.

“Don’t speak while chewing,” Lola said.

“Mary did though,” Jean said, sounding wildly distressed.  “She ate her broccoli and spoke while chewing.”

“Well it’s not my fault that Mary’s mother didn’t raise her properly.  I won’t see my son have table manners like that,” Francis said without missing a beat.

Mary smiled.  Her mother had absolutely been one to harp on about table manners. 

“Was the office quiet today?” Mary asked Lola.  Lola hadn’t come on the field trip to the school, and she hadn’t been in the afternoon meetings either.

“We don’t talk about work around Jean,” Lola said, glancing at Francis.

“Oh?”  How many times had Mary and Lola talked about what they were doing while Jean played, and ate, and watched television.

“We’re trying to be as normal as we can be while he’s still young.  There’s very little that’s normal about being the president’s grandson, so anything we can do to distance him from that,” Lola explained.  “Obviously it’s not totally avoidable, but at least when we’re both in the room with him…”

Mary frowned.  _I’m not a mother,_ she reminded herself.  _It’s their kid, not mine._

But she felt oddly silenced by it.  She didn’t know Francis well enough—at least by their new friendship—to trust him with everything on her mind, and the things she did feel comfortable talking to him definitely involved his mother.  But if his mother was off the table so long as Jean was in the room, then that left her without ideas.

Mostly the rest of the dinner revolved around the little family: Francis listening to his son’s tales of what happened at preschool, Lola and Francis comparing notes about upcoming movies they’d take turns taking Jean to, and little Jean trying to avoid his broccoli.

“Bath time,” Lola told her son, picking him up.  Mary went into the kitchen and began clearing their dinner away, putting dishes and take-out containers in the dish washer and storing away the uneaten food.

“Can daddy stay for bed?” Jean asked and Lola glanced at Francis, who grimaced.

“I have a call,” he said.  “I told the senator I’d be free by eight so we could call Mendoza in California about a potential infrastructure bill.”

“Not tonight,” Lola told her son, and Jean pouted.  “None of that now.  Bath time, then bedtime.”

“Infrastructure?” Mary asked as she wiped her hands on a dishtowel.  “I didn’t realize that infrastructure was part of the agenda.”

“My dad didn’t run on it, no,” Francis said.  “Didn’t think he could get bipartisan support so didn’t even bother.  Do you need a ride home?”

“I live close enough to walk,” she said.  She was only a few blocks away.  She’d gone out of her way to live close to at least one of her friends, and Kenna’s tastes were much finer than her own and Greer lived close to her bar. 

Francis nodded.  Then he steeled himself.  “Is it just me, or is this awkward?”

 _It’s not just you,_ Mary thought.  Her dreams helped nothing, not that she could tell him that.  “A little bit,” she said.  “It’s hard to…know you without knowing you.  You know?”  _To remember your eyes shining at me like I am everything in the world to you._

Francis nodded.  “Completely.”  He sounded almost relieved that she was telling him this.  “I guess time will make it better?”

_“Do you need time from me?”_

“Yeah,” she said.  It had worked in her dreams, after all.  “Yeah, I guess time.”  She went back to the table and grabbed her coat and purse from the back of her chair.  “Time and…more context.  We can’t force it.”

Francis half-smiled.  “No,” he agreed.  “We can’t.”

He opened the door for her and she stepped out, passing the secret service agents who were stationed outside the door to the apartment.  Francis locked the door behind him, and the two of them went down the stairs together, one of the agents remaining outside the apartment, another following them.

“Well, it was good seeing you,” he said when they reached the crisp September night. 

“And you.”  It was so very awkward.

“Text me when you get home safely,” he said as he checked traffic and crossed the street towards his car.

Mary bit back an eyeroll.  _Next time,_ she thought, because Francis was already gone.

But this time, she didn’t text him when she got home.

* * *

_“Anne!  Careful!”  She heard Francis calling, followed swiftly by the sound of giggling.  When she rounded the corner, there he was, holding her and swinging her about while she laughed.  How glad she was that he was returned from Rome.  How she had missed him.  How she loved to hear the sound of his laughter mixed with their daughter’s._

_“I’m flying!” the girl screeched happily._

_“Yes you are!” Francis said and he pulled her close and kissed her cheek.  “Be careful you don’t sprout wings or else I’ll never be able to keep hold of you.”_

_“Can I sprout wings, father?” Anne asked._

_“Only in heaven, my love,” he said.  “But you won’t be there for many years yet.”_

_His eyes were shining and it was only then that he noticed Mary._

_“Should you be up?” he asked her, coming closer and kissing her cheek, resting his hand on her swollen stomach.  “The physician—”_

_“If I have to stay in that bed for one moment longer I shall scream,” Mary said and she kissed Anne in her father’s arms.  “Besides, I was walking about in my last days before the twins were born despite what the physician said and they turned out fine.”_

_“Well, mostly,” Francis said.  “Anne does have a lot of energy.  Probably came from you walking about.”_

_“Oh, I’m sure that’s what did it,” Mary said dryly._

_“When will my brother be born, mother?” Anne asked from Francis’ arms._

_“Just as soon as he’s ready,” Mary said.  She leaned over and kissed Anne, and felt the babe kick in her belly.  She flinched._

_“Mary,” Francis said._

_“Just kicking,” she said and smiled at him.  “He’ll be quite as energetic as Anne, I think.”_

_“That will make James lonely,” Francis joked.  He bent down and set Anne on the ground.  “Go find your brother.”  And she was off, running as quickly as her little legs would carry her._

_Francis turned back to her and wrapped an arm around her waist, kissing her more deeply now that their daughter was gone, then resting his forehead against hers._

_“I’m all right,” Mary told him.  “Truly, I was just restless.”_

_“I know,” Francis said.  “I wasn’t worried.”_

_“Oh?”_

_“No.  The twins came out fine even though I know my mother was prophesying dire outcomes if you left your bed towards the end.”_

_“She never had Nostradamus’ talent.”_

_“Nostradamus never had Nostradamus’ talent,” Francis laughed.  “And he had you both so convinced I’d die.  Do you remember that?”_

_“Don’t mock.  I was worried.  He did predict Aylee dying, and so much more.”_

_“Yet here I stand with you, and our twins, and this one,” he rested a hand on her stomach.  “I defy Nostradamus, or perhaps God does.”  He glanced up at the heavens and for a moment his eyes lost their light._

_Mary reached up and touched his face, and he dropped his gaze to her again.  The light came back, and he kissed her once more._

* * *

Mary’s alarm startled her awake. Her heart was pounding in her throat for reasons entirely different from what she was used to.

 _Anne,_ she thought, resting a hand subconsciously on her stomach.  _And James.  And…_

She shuddered.

That was not how it was supposed to go.  She’d had how many dreams of Francis’ near-deathbed, of talking him through the children they would never have, of fierce little Anne who he had to play catch with and James, named for the father Mary had never known…

Was this because she now saw his profile picture with the ovary-exploding picture of him and Jean?  Because Catherine had told her she’d understand when she was a mother, and her own mother’s tipsy diatribes about not having grandchildren on the horizon?  She’d been taken from her son in the other dreams so soon after he was born.

She sat up forcefully and went to get ready for work, putting her phone on a livestream of the news while she brushed her teeth, fixed her hair and makeup, and got dressed.

On her way to work, she stared at her phone.

Normally, she could put her dreams behind her.  Most of them didn’t give her new information these days, just old reminders of whatever she probably should be seeing a therapist about.  The only ones that were hard were to do that with were the ones about her rape, her death, and Francis in that clearing. 

Now though…She wanted, desperately, to tell someone about what she’d woken from.  But, at the same time, she also knew she couldn’t tell _anyone_.  In the event that they didn’t tell her to go find the therapist she was probably long overdue in seeing, Kenna would smirk, Greer would ask her what it meant, and Lola…well she didn’t want to do that to Lola.  Lola _actually_ had Francis’ son.  So what if Mary had dreamed of having given him children.  She’d also dreamed they were married, and were king and queen of France, and some other nonsense.  It was just a dream, and not worth upsetting her friend over.

Briefly, she wondered what it would be like to tell her mother about it, to call her up and say, “Hey, I dreamed that my college boyfriend and I had kids.”  The thought was ridiculous, though.  She’d sooner tell Catherine than Marie de Guise.  And she was definitely not telling Catherine.

_I can’t tell if Catherine would murder me or arrange a wedding._

She wasn’t sure which one was worse.

The way he had looked at her and the light had just come back in his eyes.

No—no.  She wasn’t going to let herself think about Francis at all.  She had work to do.  Very important work for the First Lady of the United States.  She was not going to be sitting there confused about a bizarre dream about her ex-boyfriend.

It would help if her schedule that Monday didn’t involve a trip from Catherine’s media team to a local pre-school, and the pre-schoolers were almost the exact same age as Anne from her dream.  “It’s ridiculous,” Catherine said in the car on the way back.  “Trying to repair my image?  Me?  I have how many children again?  This is not going to make me look more maternal than standing me up next to my actual children.  And grandchild, I might add.”  She shook her head. 

“It probably wouldn’t hurt to have a picture with you and Jean,” Mary said.  “It would probably get people off your back.”

“I am not going to use my grandson as political fodder,” Catherine said.  “That’s what my children are for.”

“Lola won’t let you, will she?”

Catherine gave her a look, then muttered, “Both she and Francis say no.”

Mary’s mind was full of Francis and Anne again, and she bit the inside of her cheek.

* * *

“The last thing Henry wants is to have a birthday party thrown for him by the White House, Henry.  Don’t be ridiculous.  He’s _twenty._ And in college.  You’ll have to think of— _Henry._ ”

Catherine took the phone away from her ear and looked at Mary.  “He’s not even listening to me.  He never listens to me.  Henry is twenty years old and the last thing he wants is to come down from Ann Arbor over a weekend to rub elbows on his father’s behalf when he could be out breaking America’s liquor laws with his friends.”  She put the phone back against her ear.  “No.  I wasn’t talking to you.  I was talking to Mary.  I’m putting my foot down about this one.”

But Catherine putting her foot down was not enough, and that Friday, Mary found herself in the White House at yet another one of Kenna’s parties.

“I was trying to have a more _young_ theme,” Kenna said.  “Since He—the President wanted to be sure that Henry’s friends were brought in as well.”

“I’m sure he did,” Catherine said dryly.  Kenna’s smile stiffened and she made some excuse to disappear.  “At least I can still drive fear into the hearts of those who help him defy me,” Catherine muttered to Mary.  Her eyes were furious, but she took a deep breath and the practiced matriarchal smile came across her face.  “Does it look like I may actually be enjoying myself?”

“I’d cool off the anger eyes a bit,” Mary said.

“Unlikely,” Catherine said, grabbing a glass of champagne from a passing waiter.  “I should have protested and gone to visit Margot.”

“I’m sure Margot would have greatly appreciated that at the start of her freshman year where she just wants to be normal.”

“You can keep that dryness from your voice, Mary.  If you’re going to go far, you shouldn’t sound quite so jaded as I do, lest they start calling you a heartless harridan.  You’re too young and pretty for that.”

“And, I hope, clever,” Francis said and Mary started.  “I brought you wine, but you seem to have already taken care of the situation,” he said to his mother, nodding to the champagne glass.  “So Mary, you may have to help me with this.”

Mary accepted the glass with a word of thanks and took a sip.

“I’d thought I’d raised you to be more intelligent than to find yourself trapped at this place.  Doesn’t Loyola have a home office?”

“He does,” Francis said, “but since I’m based in DC, I’m only there every now and then, which means I get stuck at things like this.  Henry looks miserable.”  He jerked his head over to his brother.

Francis’ younger brother was a good six inches taller than him—broad of chest and very muscular.  He played basketball for the University of Michigan, and his entire team was there now.  Henry looked ill at ease, though his teammates looked _thrilled_ to be at the White House.  Kenna was talking with several of them now, and even as Mary watched, President Valois went over to chat with the team as well.

“Oh good god,” Catherine muttered.  “In a few minutes he’ll be trying to play with them, won’t he?”  And she marched over to her husband and Kenna.

“He’s really going to regret this, isn’t he?” Francis asked, watching his mother cross the room.

“She really didn’t want it, so yes—I imagine so.”

“At least we can rest assured that there won’t be any headlines about my father throwing out his back shooting hoops with the team tonight.”

“A blessing if ever there was one.”  As they watched, President Valois moved away from the team, Kenna on his heels, and Catherine was speaking with them now.  Henry was waving at someone, and they saw Hercules cross over to the team to hug his brother.  Catherine asked them something, and Hercules shifted and she saw Henry roll his eyes.

“You know,” Mary said, “I’ve given it some thought.  And it’s really not fair that Hercules is named Hercules and the rest of you are Francis, Henry, and Charles.”

Francis laughed.  “You have no idea how much I used to complain about that,” he said.  “ _Especially_ right after he was born and I was a teenager and there’s just no way to make the name ‘Francis’ sound like it doesn’t belong to some stodgy old man.”

 _“Francis is a_ girl’s _name.”_

“There really isn’t,” Mary agreed, smiling up at him.  “If it’s any consolation, I think you’ll grow into it one day.”

“Thanks, Mary.”

Even as he said the words, she saw in her mind’s eyes the blood dribbling from his ears.  She shivered.

“Are you cold?” he asked, completely misinterpreting the cause for the shudder.  The concern on his face was so sweet, and Mary smiled at him.

“I think it’s that we’re standing by the window,” she said, because there was no other way that a room this full of people could be considered cold.

Francis jerked his head, and the two of them went off to another corner of the room.  The President was there now, chatting there with the Senate majority whip with Kenna smiling at his side.  _Strange_ , Mary thought.  Kenna didn’t particularly care for politics.  But there she was, smiling and nodding as the President spoke with the Senate majority whip.

“Oh dear, do I need to rescue Kenna?” Mary said aloud.

“If you go rescue her, then I’ll be trapped and Farnese is going to grill me about where I think Loyola stands on the budget,” Francis said. 

“Well—where does he stand?” Mary asked.

“Thinks it’s too centrist.  What’s the point of us having the senate if we’re putting centrist bullshit on the table?”

“Can’t you just say that?”

“Oh, I have been,” Francis said, grimacing.  “But of course, then both of them zoom in on me like I can change his mind.”

“Isn’t it part of your job—to advise him?”  That was her job with Catherine, after all.  When Catherine was being too Catherine, Mary was the one who dug her teeth in.  It was, she suspected, part of why Catherine trusted her as much as she did.

Francis paused.  “I think Loyola has been elected for the past twenty years by not giving in on principles he holds and thinks would actively benefits his constituents.  If he thinks the budget’s bullshit, he’s not going to vote for it, no matter what the party says.  But that’s how it’s always been, so I don’t know why they expect anything different now.”

“Probably because you work for him.”

Francis sighed.  “Exactly because I work for him.  Dad thinks that I can just…you know…rein him in.”

“Except you think that Loyola has good plans, even if they’re not part of your father’s agenda,” Mary said, thinking of the infrastructure bill Francis had had a call about the other night.  She felt an odd sense of pride swelling in her.  It was something she’d always liked about him—that he stood by his principles, and his principles tended to be good ones.  She marveled, in fact, at how idealistic he was compared to his parents.

Francis gave her a look.  “Basically,” he said slowly. 

“Well, Kenna’s a big girl and more than capable of extricating herself from a conversation that she has no interest in.  I’ll run interference for you.”

“Well, now I feel like I can’t handle it myself.”  But, far from looking angry, he looked bemused.

“You probably could, but you’re the one who asked for me to be your champion.  And let’s be real here, no matter how much Farnese wants to know what you think Loyola’s going to do for the budget vote, he’s _dreading_ whatever comes out of Catherine’s office about the sexual assault bill we’re putting together.  So something tells me he’s going to steer clear of me.”

“I can’t tell whether that’s inspiring or depressing,” Francis said.  “I love the idea of you sending men running for the hills but…they should care about the sexual assault bill.”

“Oh, we’ll make them care.  Don’t worry.”

“You shouldn’t have to make them.”

He was looking at her and his gaze was soft.  Then, as if aware of the way he was looking at her, he looked away, taking a sip of wine.  His eyes settled for a moment on his father, still standing with Farnese and Kenna, to his mother, who was now speaking with the head of a feminist PAC, to Hercules, who was standing near his brother, awkwardly aware of being sixteen, to Henry, who was willfully ignoring where they were and talking very loudly with his friends.

“Did you expect to be at the White House all the time after your father was elected?” Mary asked him.  “I mean, obviously for your family, but I meant…professionally.”

Francis’ gaze returned to her, and he gave her a wry smile.  “I didn’t not expect it.  I figured I’d be in and out for parties and things.  But the sheer amount of time my dad practically orders me here…” he shakes his head.  “I think he wants the Valoises to be the next Kennedys or Roosevelts or something—a political dynasty.  And I’m the one who’s most politically interested—well, except for Leeza, but she’s in California and I’m in Washington, and I think dad’s looking more on a federal level.”

“Out for global domination,” Mary joked.

“Well, you joke, but I’m fairly certain he’d try to conquer Canada if he thought he’d get away with it.”  Francis didn’t sound enthused.  He shrugged.  “I don’t know.  He has these grand plans for me, and part of me wants them and is excited by them, but another part of me’s…”

“Not into his vision.”

“Not particularly.”

“It’s the millennial in you,” Mary said.

That made him laugh.  “Probably.”  He reached a hand up and rubbed his forehead.  “I’m sure at this point you’ve heard my father’s millennial rants.”

“We almost cost him the election, I hear,” Mary snorted.  “Too much avocado toast to think straight.”

“Yeah, because we owe politicians shit,” Francis muttered, rolling his eyes.  “Our parents ruined the economy and the environment and all we got was this lousy snapchat filter.”

“I’m getting a clearer and clearer picture about why you work for Loyola now.”

“You were confused before?” Francis asked, and she looked at him, not quite sure if he was teasing her or being genuine. 

“Not really,” she said slowly, watching as his expression grew more and more serious.  “You’ve always been someone who leads with his heart.  So you going towards someone who seems to do the same…made sense to me.”

Francis pulled his lips between his teeth for a moment, as though not sure whether to say what was on his mind.  Then he smiled at her.  “I suppose…” he began, before pausing to think over his words.  “I suppose that’s part of why it always surprised me that you would work for my mother.”

Mary raised her eyebrows at him and he continued.  “You don’t agree on how things should be done, even if you share politics, and you care so much about how things should be done that it never made sense.  And I know people change, but…that one never lined up.  Because you’d throw everything out the window for what you thought was right.”

“Do you think working for your mother is beneath me?” she asked, a little surprised.  Catherine loved Francis.  She would likely deny it to the grave, but it was clear to anyone who looked at her that she loved him best of her children.  And Francis loved his mother too.  Sometimes, in her less charitable moods, Mary wondered how, but he definitely loved his mother.

“No,” Francis said.  “No, I would never think that.  It just…I suppose it stems from time and space.  It never lined up with what I knew of you—that you’d end up working for her.  Which could just be me working with old information, since you’re not nineteen anymore.”

“Your mother is a stunningly competent woman,” Mary said slowly, “And even if we don’t agree on how to do things all the time, that just means I have all the more to learn from her, don’t I?  If I were surrounded by people I agreed with, I wouldn’t grow quite so much.  It’s challenging, but in the end I’m better for it.  And I’d like to think that she is too.”

“Not to mention the American people,” Francis said dryly.  “I love my mother, but…she’s harsh sometimes.  I’d like to think you keep that from making it out of her office.”

“See on her team, we think of that as the patriarchal bullshit that surrounds powerful women.  Why does Catherine have to smile and nod in order for people to see her competence?”

“There’s definitely video footage on youtube of her making a teenager cry by calling him a ‘woeful moron,’” Francis pointed out.  “Like, I hear you loud and clear, but I also know my mother.”

“And her being….like that shouldn’t factor into the work she does—and it certainly shouldn’t be—” she froze. 

“Shouldn’t be what?”

“Shouldn’t be more important than how your father and Diane had a longstanding affair and children,” she pivoted.

“That’s old news to the media,” Francis shrugged.  “That scandal happened while he was in congress, and he got reelected despite it.  Twice.  That wasn’t what you were going to say.”

“It’s unfair that he got reelected twice, but Catherine telling a reporter that the questions he was asking reflected the newfound idiocy of editorial media almost lost him the election.”

“True.  What were you—”

“You and Lola,” Mary said quietly, and she saw Francis’ face freeze.  “And Jean.  You have a kid out of marriage, have no intention of marrying the mother.  The Conservative media should have had a field day with you and how you’re going to be like your father who also doesn’t respect his marriage.  Instead it was story after story about how strange Catherine looks when she’s smiling.”

Francis took a deep breath, then another.  Then he took a sip of wine and looked back over the room, clearly thinking.  _And there it is,_ she thought.  Lola had once said that one of the few things that could make Francis see red was anything happening to Jean.  Mary had known that somehow before Jean was even born, remembering Francis screaming and brandishing a sword in Louis’ face.

“I’m not saying that the treatment you got wasn’t fair to you,” she said.  “But it’s an example of how family should have been treated during the election.  Nothing bad was said about you—and a surprising lack of bad about Lola.  But if you compare that to—”

“No, I hear you,” Francis said.  He wasn’t looking at her.  He took another sip of wine. 

 _Well that sure killed the conversation,_ Mary thought as she took a sip of wine herself.  She couldn’t think of anything to say—nor was she sure she wanted to.  If Francis was angry with her, let him be angry with her.  _I’m right,_ she thought as she looked out across the room.

The president was now speaking with Secretary Foullon…and Kenna. 

Mary frowned.

“Yeah,” Francis said and she glanced at him.  He was watching her, but his eyes went back to his father and Kenna.  “I noticed that too.”

“Is there something specific I should be noticing?” Mary asked carefully.

Francis gave her a look.  No one was standing particularly close to them.  “I think you know,” he said quietly.

“I don’t know anything,” Mary said firmly.  She _refused_ to believe anything of Kenna without her friend telling her.  And Kenna would.  Kenna was terrible at keeping secrets.  And she trusted Mary, didn’t she?

“No,” Francis said slowly.  “No, we don’t know anything.”

Her mouth was suddenly very dry.  She noticed how he changed her ‘I’ to a ‘we.’   

* * *

_“Welcome to court,” Mary said, sweeping a skirt out in a curtsey as Antoine descended from his carriage._

_“Your majesty,” he said, bowing over her hand and kissing it.  “But where is your kingly husband?  Have I so offended him that he would not come out to greet me?”_

_“The king is in Reims,” Mary responded._

_“A pity,” Antoine said, “I had so looked forward to seeing my dear cousin after all these years.  Brother!  You look well.”  He stepped forward and embraced Louis._

_“I shall leave you to show your brother to his chambers, Louis,” she told him, and Louis smiled.  Both Bourbons bowed, and Louis led the King of Navarre from the courtyard.  When they reached the door into the keep, both glanced back at her, and she had the distinct impression that they had just been speaking of her._

Careful _, she thought.  You mustn’t give anyone the wrong idea.  Especially not with Francis away._

 _It was odd—she found that she missed him.  She had not expected that, especially not when she was so certain that it would be better to lead lives separate from one another, to end their love and live as most queens and kings did: distantly, respectfully, dutifully, passionlessly.  But Francis_ was _this castle to her in a way she hadn’t really noticed until he’d been gone from it for weeks and weeks._ Better Francis than _them_.  _It was a comforting thought, or it would have been if her heart weren’t so confused._

_Sometimes, she clung to her pillow and imagined it was Louis there at her side, her good friend, loyal, brave.  He had helped her hunt down and kill the men who had raped her.  But when he and his brother had glanced back at her she had felt something odd—as though she were prey._

Louis doesn’t think I’m prey.  _She was confident that that was true._

_But Antoine…_

Catherine doesn’t trust the Bourbons—she thinks they seek to supplant the Valois, to supplant Francis.  And here is Antoine while Francis is away from court.  _It sat ill with her.  Whatever she may feel about Francis’ part in what had happened, he did not deserve to lose his crown._

_But that was Catherine’s paranoia, surely.  Surely, it wouldn’t come to that._

_But there was something about Antoine’s gaze._ He sees Scotland and France.  And I do not like what he seems to see.

_And for the first time in weeks, she wished Francis were there with her._


	3. Chapter 3

_James: Coming down to DC this weekend. Drinks?_

_Mary: YES!!!!!!_

It had been almost a year since she’d last seen her half-brother, and she missed him terribly. He was in the navy, and was based in Annapolis, and theoretically she could see him more frequently than she did, but over the years they’d found that they rarely had the time for it.

Text messaging and facebook kept them connected, and the moments when she went up to Annapolis to visit her mother, or he came down to DC for whatever reason.

Which was how she ended up at Greer’s on Saturday just after dinner with her half-brother—out of uniform—and a bottle of scotch. To say that James drank like a sailor was a bit of an understatement, and midway through their second glass, Mary told him about Francis and he reached across the bar to grab the bottle from Greer and fill his glass up to the brim.

“We’re trying to be friends again,” she told her brother.

“What does that mean?” James asked, a serious look to his eyes.

“It means we’re trying to be friends.”

“I thought you said you were already friends.”

“I mean, we were. But not friends friends. The kind of friends where you know each other but don’t really talk to each other. Acquaintance friends. Who’d dated. But now we’re trying to be real friends again.”

“Should I be worried?” James asked her.

“What about? He’s a good man.”

James glanced at Greer, who was standing behind the bar. It was still early enough in the evening that she wasn’t swamped with people haranguing her for a drink. “What do you think about this?” he asked her.

“People can be friends with their exes,” she shrugged. “I’m friends with Leith.”

“I don’t know who that is,” James said.

“My ex,” Greer said simply. “He’s in the army.”

James made a face. “Army,” he muttered.

“Oh get off your high horse, navy,” Mary said, rolling her eyes.

“Anyway, if Mary wants to be friends with Francis, I don’t see what’s wrong with that,” Greer said. “Life’s short enough as it is, and she can make her own choices without you getting worried about her.”

“She’s my little sister,” James said. “I’ll always worry about her.”

Greer gave him a small smile. Someone at the end of the bar waved her down and she went over to take their order.

“You really don’t have to worry about me,” Mary said. “I can handle it.”

“You were pretty cut up about your break up with him the first time,” James pointed out.

“The first time? What are you implying?”

“Just that you were heartbroken. And then again with Louis. And _then_ there was Darnley. Look—I’m just saying. I don’t like your track record with your heart and would _vastly_ prefer you stay away from people who have already hurt you.”

“Francis didn’t hurt me,” Mary said. “We—we fell apart. I was hurting about other things.”

“That’s not how I remember it,” James said quietly.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“That he made things hurt more. Just be careful. For me?”

“I’ll be careful for myself,” Mary said. “Though I thank you as ever for your concern.”

Greer was back. She picked up the bottle of scotch and filled up both of their glasses again.

“It’s nice having someone _try_ to take care of her,” Greer said to James as Mary took another drink. “Whenever we try, we get firmly rebuffed, but she’s adamant about protecting us.”

“What’s to say she isn’t firmly rebuffing me, too?” James asked, smiling up at Greer. “I think it’s her constant state of being.”

“Oh hush,” Mary said, rolling her eyes. “I can take care of myself.”

Greer and James shared a look, and Mary did her best to ignore the way they both smiled at one another.

* * *

_She had not felt so alive as she did dancing under the stars in Paris with him, feeling the way her skirts swirled around her legs, the heat in her heart every time the dance, briefly, brought them back together again. His eyes shone as he looked at her, and the blue of them reminded her of the pool near the clearing with the flowering white tree. How beautiful it had all been—how perfect. The world was a better place, and Francis—Francis seemed almost like himself again._

_And she felt almost like herself. Different, perhaps, than she’d been when first they’d wed, but surely that was to be expected. Her miscarriages and English troops in Scotland would have done that to her, even if that night had not happened. She felt older, deeper, bolder somehow._

_But as she danced with Francis that night, she felt lighter than air, and she found she could not stop smiling._

He lives, _she thought._ He lives, and so do I.

_The music ended, and they paused to applaud the musicians. “Another?” Francis asked her quietly._

_“Always,” she responded and a moment later they were moving again—a faster dance this time._

_Her heart did not stop racing all night. They danced until their feet were sore, and then they retreated and danced a different dance together, lips hot against one another’s skin as they pulled at one another’s clothing—Francis unlacing her bodice, Mary tugging the doublet she’d had made for him off from over his head. He was still thin from his illness, from his fasting, but his tongue tasted the same as it always had against hers and his hands as they caressed her breasts, caressed her hips, caressed her cheek and hair—those were Francis’ hands._

_She sighed when he entered her, because that was the same too. That was how it had always been, but the urgency of his movement within her, the urgency of his lips against hers, the way he moaned her name, over and over again like a prayer—that was new. That was new and Mary matched his intensity because what else was she to do, when they’d spent the night dancing under the stars._

* * *

Mary awoke clutching her pillow and—far from feeling the post-orgasmic glow that usually came from dreams where she had good sex, she felt bereft.

 _We made it past the clearing,_ she thought. She’d known that they had—after the dream with little Anne. But it was still an odd feeling, a twist in her stomach, to be in Paris under the stars the way they’d planned and not sobbing over Francis’ lifeless body. She hated that clearing, hated that beautiful white tree, but how harmless it was when she and Francis made it past. How many years had she spent dreading dreams of the tree, and she’d known that they _must_ have because of the dream with Anne.

But they had gotten to Paris. They had danced under the stars.

She should feel victorious.

 _I need a therapist,_ she thought as she buried her face into her pillow. _Or the kinds of sleeping pills that don’t let you dream at all._

Part of her wondered what would happen if she texted Francis. _Hi I dreamed we were Renaissance royalty and we had some really good sex and you didn’t die this time._

That’d go over well, she was sure.

She pulled her phone out and saw three emails from Catherine and a text from Greer, which she opened first.

_Greer: Three part question. 1) Would you be weirded out if I said I thought your half-brother was hot?_

There were no subsequent texts. Greer, ever cautious—especially after everything she’d been through, waited for Mary’s response.

_Mary: No. I can see why you’d like him._

She put her phone down, not quite sure if she was ready to stomach Catherine’s weekend working. It was a sure sign that Henry had gone back to college if Catherine was sending her emails too.

_And Francis…_

There was this lurching feeling in her stomach when she thought of him. He’d been younger in her dream the night before than he was now—by several years. But she couldn’t get rid of the memory of that lightness in his eyes, the way he’d moaned her name like a prayer.

She got up out of her bed and went into the bathroom to give herself a long, hard look in the mirror. “You,” she told herself, “Need to be straight with yourself about what you want.”

It was as though the floodgates had opened the moment they’d started talking to one another. Years and years and years of hard-wrought separation where she’d forced her dreams and reality to hold no bearing on one another undone by the pair of them dancing and whatever it was that she was dreaming now. “Do you want him?” she asked herself aloud.

She didn’t know.

He was attractive. She’d always been attracted—otherwise she’d never have dated him in the first place. And he was one of the few men on the planet she trusted to actually be good—not just to others around him, but to the world beyond those in his immediate presence. She’d be a fool not to want him.

And, of course, they’d broken up, and she’d gotten together with Louis, and that had hurt him, just as it had hurt her when Louis had left her for _her_ cousin. “No wonder I dream us as a Renaissance melodrama,” she muttered. Cousins upon cousins upon cousins…and now Greer liked her half brother, just as once Mary thought she’d liked Bash…

She heard her phone buzz on the bed and left the bathroom.

_Greer: 2) Is he single?_

_Mary: As far as I’m aware._

_Greer: 3) Do you think he’d like me if I asked him out?_

_Mary: That I can’t say. I don’t know if he has a type. But you should do it._

_Greer: He’s not the type of guy to get weird when a girl is forward?_

_Mary: If he is, he and I shall have stern words._

_Greer: You’re a doll._

After that, she read Catherine’s emails, two of which outlined events that Mary had to go to next week. She added them to her calendar then, against her better judgement, texted Francis.

_Mary: Are you going to be at these things on Wednesday and Friday?_

He didn’t reply immediately, so she went and showered, and came back to find his reply on her phone.

_Francis: No—I’m out of town all week with Loyola. Next time around though._

It shouldn’t make her upset. It truly shouldn’t. But it made her sadder than she liked, knowing that he wouldn’t be there this week.

* * *

 

_“So you’re not even going to fight for it, then?” Mary demanded as she burst into his chambers. He was alone, and sitting on the windowsill they’d once sat on together, his bible in his hands, reading._

_“Fight for what?” he asked, looking up at her as she slammed the door behind her._

_“For this. For us. Are you truly not going to fight?”_

_“I can’t fight God, Mary.”_

_“You cannot claim to know God’s mind, no matter how much you pray.”_

_“Perhaps not, but the least I can do is do what I can to shield you from it. You have already suffered enough from my sins.”_

_“I suffered,” Mary snapped. “More than you will ever understand, I suffered. And yet now my suffering is merely a part of yours, is that it? Men raped me as a way for god to punish you?”_

_“I didn’t say that,” Francis said at once. “Nor do I think it.”_

_“Oh?” Mary demanded._

_“I would move the ends of the earth if it meant you had never suffered. I carry the weight of it every day, knowing that the fault was mine. I would give anything for you to be happy again. I’ve heard you are close with Condé and—”_

_“Don’t say it,” Mary said, but Francis plowed right through._

_“I wonder if you wouldn’t be happy with him in a way you never can be with me. He may be a fornicator, but what is fornication compared to patricide and regicide when it comes to sins against God? And if it makes you smile...”_

_Mary wanted to shake him, wanted to scream at him._

_“At least Louis of Condé never seeks to subsume my pain with his own,” she hissed at him angrily before freezing. She narrowed her eyes. “Are you baiting me now? Trying to make me so angry that I’d be driven from you?”_

_“I don’t need to make you angry to drive you from me, Mary,” he said and he closed the bible and stood up, stepping towards her. She felt her foot move back, and saw at once what he meant. So instead, defiant, she stood her ground as he walked towards her. “I see you recoil from me. You said you couldn’t bear to be around any man’s breath and I believe that. You had my mother change the guards’ uniforms. But you smile and take Condé’s arm while you do not come near me. I don’t need to bait you Mary. It’s done.”_

_“It’s not,” Mary said._

_“I wish I could believe that,” he said. “This isn’t false prophecies of Nostradamus. This is what we are. We can never be what we were and it is naïve to think we could. I dreamed it when I rode to Reims, wondering if the next time we’d be happy was when we were with God. And then I remembered that I can pray and pray and pray, as much as I can for the rest of my life. We will never be together when we die, Mary. So what’s the good of any of this now?”_

* * *

 

“Kenna!” Mary said, smiling up at Kenna as she swept through the door to the bullpen. “What brings you here?”

Kenna smiled at her and tilted her head. “I wanted to check with you about next week in Iowa.”

“Iowa,” Mary said looking at her calendar. They were, in fact, supposed to be in Iowa next week. “Yes,” she said, looking back at Kenna.

“The President was hoping that she’d join him after Iowa on a trip to South Dakota. Photoshoot at Mount Rushmore.”

“The President wanted?” Mary asked, raising her eyebrow.

“And publicity,” Kenna added. “And events. Good PR. If she’s going to be there anyway.”

Mary scanned Catherine’s calendar, then—to be sure—Hercules’ school calendar. “That’d be on Thursday?” she asked.

“Yup.”

“Hercules has a test that day, so she might say no, because sometimes he doesn’t study if no one’s around.”

“Can’t say I blame him,” Kenna said, and Mary huffed in amused agreement. “You’ll check with her?”

“You can probably go in and—”

“No, no. That’s fine. But thanks. If you could let me know that’d be—”

“Kenna,” Mary said and Kenna stilled. Then her face grew stubborn, and she said,

“Let me know as soon as you can.”

“Why’d you come all this way if you aren’t going to ask her in person.”

“I was passing through,” Kenna said lightly, and just like that she was gone.

 _We don’t know anything,_ Francis had said.

No, they didn’t know anything for sure. But she’d had her dreams—she knew what _could_ be.

 _Oh my god—this is what Nostradamus sounded like,_ she thought to herself. She had half a mind to tell Catherine, just to see how she would react. Catherine had always had an odd belief in the supernatural—surely it wouldn’t be worse than the Ouija board stories that had gotten leaked last month, and how those had gotten out were anyone’s guess.

Still…

She pulled out her phone.

_Mary: Kenna what’s going on._

_Mary: I’m worried._

She saw Kenna’s read receipts, but Kenna did not respond.

* * *

 

It was a rare day when Mary texted only two of the three of her friends in one thread.

Indeed, it was so rare that the last thing in the message chain between her, Lola, and Greer were plans for Kenna’s most recent birthday, eight months before.

But she texted the pair of them now.

_Mary: I’m worried about Kenna._

Lola looked up from her desk across the bullpen and Mary knew that her friend had seen the text. Immediately, she saw both of them begin to type.

_Greer: What do you mean?_

_Lola: What’s going on?_

_Mary: I don’t know if I want to text about it. I just have this…feeling—easier to talk about in person. Can we do dinner? Or a playdate? I don’t know._

_Lola: We were going to go to the park after work, the two of us and Jean and Rosie. Want to come?_

_Mary: I think that’ll work._

Which was how she found herself in a park at three-thirty, having snuck out of the office before the end of the day. She wasn’t particularly worried about losing her job for it—Catherine liked her too much, and besides, she never cut out unless things were really urgent. Jean was climbing the jungle gym with two other boys about his age, and Greer and Mary took turns pushing Rosie on the baby swing.

“What’s going on?” asked Lola.

“I…” Greer said slowly, looking at Mary carefully, “I may know what this is about.”

“Did she say something?” Mary asked her at once.

“She made a drunken hint the last time we all had drinks,” Greer said. “You two were in the bathroom. Something about…” Greer looked around. There weren’t other parents or caregivers near them, but she lowered her voice all the same, “Something about secret fun with…with someone important.” Mary’s stomach twisted, and Greer sighed. “It’s not who I think it is, is it?”

“I think it is,” Mary said glumly. Oh, this was bad. This was very bad. On so many levels. Not least of which was that there was no way for Kenna not to be hurt by it.

“Who?” Lola asked quietly.

Mary glanced about them again, then, so quietly she almost made no noise, “Henry. You know. _Henry._ ”

* * *

 

Mary watched Kenna all evening on Wednesday. At this party, she was subtler, bouncing from room to room, speaking with any number of people. But three times, she ended up standing near President Valois while he spoke to whomever he was speaking to.

The third time it happened, Kenna glanced over to where Mary stood and saw Mary watching. She grimaced and excused herself. Mary followed her.

“What?” she asked.

“We’re not talking about it here,” Mary said. “But we’re going to talk about it.”

“Look—it’s not your business,” Kenna said.

“We’re not talking about it here,” Mary said firmly. “Just… Just Kenna, please be careful.”

Kenna’s gaze was even and unfathomable and she left Mary standing in that corner by herself.

Again, she thought of Francis. It was good he wasn’t here, she supposed. He could live in blissful ignorance…

_Except that him trying to keep me ignorant only caused trouble. I didn’t tell him about Lola, he didn’t tell me about his father, lies and lies and lies only causing pain._

_That was in a dream. That wasn’t real life._ This _is real life. And it’s Kenna’s secret._

She pulled out her phone and stared at it. It would be so easy to text him—even just a code, something that only he would understand, because apparently they had enough for that now, and know that he’d probably be able to contextualize it.

But it was Kenna. She couldn’t pick Francis over Kenna, not when they were just friends, not when the depth of whatever it was she felt for him only came from her own damn dreams.

She put her phone away, and went to find another glass of wine. She suddenly didn’t care if she was hungover at work tomorrow.

* * *

 

_James: Greer asked me out._

She was sitting on the bus, headed to the gym and trying very hard not to think about the anxious not in her stomach ever since she’d begun connecting the dots about Kenna and President Valois.

_Mary: And?_

She watched as he typed—it was taking too long for her to feel wholly calm about his answer.

_James: Is that you asking what I said, or asking why I was asking if you cared?_

Mary rolled her eyes at that.

_Mary: The former._

_James: I said yes. I’m assuming you’re ok with that?_

_Mary: Both of you are grown adults. You don’t need my permission to do anything._

_James: Yeah, but I’m not about to date one of my sister’s best friends without checking with her first. I’m not a complete idiot._

_Mary: That’s sweet of you. But really. Do as you please._

_James: And if I break her heart, you’ll skin me?_

_Mary: Yes._

_James: Lol_

She switched windows on her phone and texted Greer.

_Mary: I hear he said yes._

Greer began typing immediately.

_Greer: He did. I think it took him by surprise, which I guess shouldn’t surprise me. No one ever really expects that I want to date._

_Mary: Because why would a single mother and divorcée possibly want love in her life._

_Greer: Precisely. But he seemed open to it obviously. Wants to meet Rosie. He’s worried we’re not going to want the same things, but he says he’s happy to give it a shot._

_Mary: Glad you’re both going into it with level heads._

_Greer: Lola’s gotten to me, I think. Trying this whole direct communication thing early in a relationship is jarring._

_Mary: Does Lola know? Am I allowed to tell the Marylanders, or do you want to keep it quiet._

_Greer: Quiet for now. I don’t want to get my own hopes up. Especially…well…with what’s going on with the others._

Mary frowned.

_Mary: Is something going on with Lola that I don’t know about?_

Greer did not respond.

_Mary: Don’t do this to me, I’m anxious enough about Kenna as is._

_Mary: Come on, Greer._

But Greer kept silent and Mary opened yet another text window on her phone and was already trying to figure out how to text Lola and demand that she tell her what was going on when her phone buzzed an a notification that Francis had texted her crossed the screen.

_Francis: Are you still at the office?_

_Mary: No, I left for the gym twenty minutes ago. What do you need?_

_Francis: Doesn’t matter, really. I needed to ask my mother something, but she’s being extremely nonresponsive._

_Mary: She’s been in coaching with the communications team all afternoon to prep for the Iowa trip. If you need something from her, I’d recommend waiting until tomorrow morning to ask because she’ll probably be pissed when she gets out._

_Francis: Thanks. Good to know._

_Francis: Your day ok?_

Mary took a deep breath. She’d spent so much of it thinking about Kenna, and _now_ she was thinking about Lola. _If Lola’s got something going on, Francis would know, wouldn’t he? I could ask him, couldn’t I?_

_Mary: Yeah. Lots to do before we fly out. How’s the road?_

_Francis: Good. Talked to a lot of good people. Looking forward to being home again._

_Mary: Miss the kiddo?_

_Francis: Yes. So much. He grows every time I’m gone, I swear._

She smiled at her phone.

_Francis: Seeing him this weekend and I get him for most of next week since you and Lola are going to be on the road._

_Mary: Some of the trip’s still up in the air because Hercules has a test and Catherine may want to come home._

_Francis: Is this the photo op my dad keeps asking me to try and convince her to do?_

_Mary: Probably._

She looked up from her phone and with a jolt realized she had missed her stop. She stood up quickly and got off the bus at the next stop, and walked quickly six blocks until she reached her gym.

Greer had still not texted her back.

* * *

_Antoine had been at court a week and Mary found herself constantly confused._

_When she was Scotland and France, she felt calmer. Speaking to King Antoine as a queen was easy—comforting even. She felt she stood taller than she had since she was raped, because she felt the power of her station radiating through her in a way she had not felt in a while._

_It was when he spoke to her as Mary that she found herself confused. “You’ve been such a good hostess to my brother. He’s only ever sung your praises.” “And what a fine woman you are—quite the light of the court.” “Now I see why Louis is so taken with you.”_

_This last one set her teeth on edge. She cared for Louis, had even dreamed of kissing him, of a world where they might be together—but they could not be, not so long as she was wed to Francis, and a queen. Such a foolish dream could cost her her head—she knew what had almost become of Catherine when her infidelity had been learned. Furthermore, coming from Antoine’s lips the idea made her stomach twist. Was it so obvious that she cared for Louis? Did all the court think she reveled in Francis’ absence? That his absence hadn’t been offered to her that she might recover from what had happened? But of course—the court couldn’t know. The court did not know the truth of what had happened that night._

Am I recovered? _She did not know. She did not think she was. She did not like it when Antoine looked at her for very long, and kept her distance from most of the guards. She’d even gone to Catherine to see if she was being silly for wanting their uniforms changed so that they wouldn’t remind her of that night. Catherine had seen it done on her behalf, had come up with a reason to do so that had evaded Mary when she’d been trying to justify it beyond that the uniforms reminded her of her own pain._

_And yet every time Antoine looked at her his gaze felt…conniving. As though he saw her as a weakness in Francis’ hold on France. And so long as Francis was absent he had no reason to believe otherwise._

I cannot keep him away if this is the truth of it—if Catherine is right. _Catherine couldn’t be right about Louis, but Antoine?_

_That night, when she was preparing for bed, she took a deep breath, considered her words carefully, and wrote to Francis._

* * *

The trip to Iowa was fairly standard, and Mary spent most of it on her laptop with Lola, doing legal research for Nostradamus when she wasn’t staffing the First Lady. “Which you should count yourself lucky for,” Catherine said when she found the two of them in the hotel towards the end of the day. “Believe me, you don’t want to be near these people.”

“Referring to the good people of Iowa as ‘these people’ might be part of why you have an image problem,” Mary pointed out dryly.

“I’m sparing you the plethora of information that would provide ample justification for the choice,” Catherine said. “You’ll see some of them at dinner tonight. We’re eating with Senator Horan.”

Lola looked up, surprised. “But he hates you and the president.”

“So how could we refuse him? If he’s going to offer to have us over for dinner, we must make him suffer as much as we are suffering, and I’ll confess I’m rather eager to watch him squirm all night like the worm that he is. I never thought I’d be eager to get to the Dakotas, but here we are.”

Lola pursed her lips.

“Sometimes I forget why I work for her,” she muttered when Catherine was gone.

“Because it’ll make the rest of your career that much easier?”

“Is it worth it?” Lola muttered. “I can’t stand her. She is so heartless.” Mary bit her lip on the memory of Catherine’s gentleness when she’d learned that Mary had been raped. “And I’m fairly certain the only reason she can stand me is because of Jean.”

“You could quit,” she pointed out, “Find a new job.”

“The trouble is it’s wildly convenient for me to cut out of work for Jean when I work for his grandmother,” Lola sighed.

“What’s this? Lola? Gaming the system?”

Lola gave her a look, and Mary squeezed her hand. “You can always leave,” she said again. “Don’t forget that.”

Lola sighed. “I’m going to call Francis and Jean in a moment if that’s ok.”

Mary left her there and went back to her hotel room to prepare for the dinner.

* * *

 

“Can I ask you something?” Mary asked Lola as they walked down the hallway together. It was late, and they had to be up early the next day to drive to Cedar Rapids, but Mary had to ask before that anxious knot in her stomach continued to wear at her nerves.

“Of course,” Lola said, smiling at her, and Mary unlocked the door to her hotel room and the two of them went inside. Mary kicked off her heels, and sat down on one of the queen beds in the room.

“It’s a question I don’t really know how to ask,” Mary said, steeling herself.

“Is it about Francis?” Lola asked.

“What? No—why?”

“I know things are…new between you. And sometimes you both make a point of not mentioning each other around me. In a different sort of way than you did in the past few years. And I was wondering if there was something behind that.”

Mary froze. Francis was making a point not to talk about her? And it was different than before?

She’d think about that later. Instead, she looked up at Lola. “Don’t get mad at Greer,” she said. “But she let something slip the other day. About…someone you might be seeing?”

The muscles of Lola’s face froze, but she a flush crept across her face.

“You can’t tell Francis,” she said at once and now it was Mary’s turn to freeze. “I mean, I don’t see why you would, but you can’t.”

“Why?” Mary asked at once.

“I don’t think—no, I know he wouldn’t approve.”

“ _Who_?”

“Stephane Narcisse,” Lola said and Mary’s eyes bugged out of her head.

“Lola, you can’t be serious.”

“I am, though,” Lola said, and she gave Mary a beady gaze. “It…I wasn’t expecting it. Or even looking for it. But he’s a surprisingly sweet man, and—”

“He’s crude and a bully and—” Mary bit her tongue on the word _old_ because he was old—old enough to be Lola’s father. And while Mary didn’t necessarily have a problem with Lola dating someone older than her, Narcisse’s age made all the other points that much more unappetizing. “Which is why you don’t want Francis to know. He wouldn’t want him near your son.”

“Among other things,” Lola said. “I mean—You know Francis. He can get possessive.”

Mary had a sudden memory of Francis and Louis at a college party where both of them were drunk. But, more vivid, was a dream of the pair of them sparring in front of court at a party—Louis striking Francis on the nose for all to see.

“I’m not his property, or anything. And I don’t think he thinks of it that way, but he also doesn’t like Stephane. And it’s not like Stephane and I are around Jean. He hasn’t even met Jean yet, and won’t until I’ve told Francis.”

“So you’re serious then? Serious enough to—”

“I don’t know what we are,” Lola said. “But I’m being careful. I know what Stephane is, and what all of you think of him. But he is sweet to me. And I don’t think he has any ulterior motive in it, either—which is wholly unexpected.”

Mary leaned back on the bed and stared at the ceiling. Things upon things that she found she wanted to tell Francis, and also the knowledge that she wouldn’t. Fear that came from nowhere except her dreams gnawed at her. “You will tell Francis when the time comes.”

“I will,” Lola promised. “I don’t want you in the middle of it. That’s why I tried not to tell you. At least if Francis found out, you could say you didn’t know.”

 _“She can never know. She must be able to deny on oath before God that she knew anything. It's the only way to keep her safe.”_ And how well that had worked out.

“I won’t lie if he asks me if I know anything,” Mary said.

“I wouldn’t ask you to,” Lola replied immediately. “If he finds anything out, then I’d rather have him know the truth. But…but at least for now…”

“I’ll say nothing.”

Lola’s phone buzzed in her hand and she looked at it, frowning.

“Hello?” she asked, and Mary watched her face grow annoyed. “Really?” Then she sighed. “Well, I guess I get out of Iowa, then. Oh, it’s not your fault, don’t apologize. I’ll call when I have flights.” She hung up and looked at Mary.

“Loyola killed the budget. Which means that the president is insisting that both he and Francis come to South Dakota to talk to him in person, which means that I am heading home tonight or tomorrow because someone needs to be with Jean. Francis says that the babysitter is unavailable.”

Mary gaped at her. “Honestly, that’s outrageous.”

“It is,” Lola agreed. “But I best be off.” And she left, shaking her head.

* * *

 

_Francis returned to court two weeks later, on a day when Mary was out riding with Louis. She returned to see footmen bringing his things into the castle. She took a deep breath at the sight and, as she dismounted and passed the reigns to a stableboy, Louis asked her, quietly, “You said he was staying away until November. Is it all right that he has returned?”_

_“I sent for him,” Mary said._

_Louis raised his eyebrows. “I thought you wanted distance from him—to lead separate lives.”_

_“He is king of France. Spending months away from his court on my account is ultimately irresponsible,” she said. She did not like lying to Louis. She did not like lying to anyone. But the idea that his brother set her ill at ease was one she could not shake._

_She returned to her chambers then took a deep breath. They hadn’t actually agreed to lead separate lives—he’d left court before she had asked it of him, and then she’d gone and started missing him in confusing way. But she was determined that he not get his hopes up that she was well, that things were better. He didn’t deserve false hope, no more than she did._

_So she wore a plain, high collared gown and went to the bedchamber that they had once shared. But she found the room empty, servants putting Francis’ things away, but no sign of him. She went next to Jean’s nursery, knowing how dearly Francis loved his son, and how much he would have missed the boy, but Lola had not seen him._

_Confused, Mary went to the council chamber and found him sitting behind the table, reading through several documents, sitting across from his mother. He looked up when she came in._

_“Mary.” There was no warmth there, no flush of relief at the sight of her, no light in his eyes that there had once been. It was as though they were strangers._

_Worse, he looked unwell. He was thinner than he had been when he’d left all those weeks before, and he was wearing a simple dark doublet that only made his pallor that much more stark. There were dark circles under his eyes, as though he’d been sleeping badly._ We match _, she thought but the observation gave her no joy._

_“Are you well?” she asked him, then glancing at Catherine. Catherine was watching her son closely as well, and when she looked at Mary, Mary saw that fleeting fear for her son’s health too._

_“Well enough,” he said simply. “I have slept poorly of late. My mother was telling me of King Antoine.”_

_“I do not like him,” Catherine said at once to Mary. “I do not trust the Bourbons and wished the both of them were back in Navarre.”_

_“Condé is French,” Francis pointed out._

_“All the more reason to send him far. If he had eyes on your seat—”_

_“And has been vital to keeping my family safe—both Jean and Lola, as well as Mary.” He did not look at her._

_“Francis, now is not the time for a big heart and gratitude to the man. His brother has eyes on your throne and every word from his lips drips of ambition.”_

_Francis leaned back in his seat, resting his hand against his lips. Then, abruptly, he stood._

_“Where are you going?” Catherine demanded._

_“I would pray,” he said and left the room without so much as a glance at Mary._

_“What was that?” Catherine asked her sharply. “What did you put in your letter?”_

_“I merely bade him return—conveyed your concerns about King Antoine and my own that his absence at court weakened his position.”_

_“Henry used to pray,” Catherine said quietly, “It was the excuse he used to give when he was going off to Diane.” She stood too. “But I think Francis truly means to pray.”_

* * *

“Francis, you’re killing me here,” Henry Valois said the moment that Francis arrived, looking tired and peeved. “All I ask is this one little thing, and you can’t get it done?”

“I don’t work for you, dad,” Francis said, pulling out a chair and sitting down at the table across from his father. “I work for Senator Loyola.”

Francis reached for the pot of coffee on the table, and poured himself a mug. There were dark circles under his eyes, and, given the hour at which he must have gotten up that morning in order to get there, Mary wondered if he’d slept at all.

“You do,” President Valois agreed. “So do you mind explaining to me why the good Senator of Arizona killed my budget?”

“It was a shitty budget?” Francis suggested, taking a swig of coffee. President Valois’ eyes narrowed for a moment before he looked at Catherine.

“This is your fault,” he told Catherine.

“I don’t suppose it occurred to you that I can’t exactly get what I want done until the budget has passed Congress. Why is this my fault?”

“Because you raised the boy to be…” President Valois was struggling with words and Catherine inflated angrily.

“Only because _you_ were off with Diane and that boy of hers,” she hissed.

“Because god forbid Francis be responsible for his own growth as a person,” Mary said. They both turned to stare at her. She felt heat creep up her neck, but it _was_ the truth. She didn’t think she’d ever seen the President look at her like that. More frequently, he was jovial at the sight of her, praising what he knew of her work through Catherine. Distant, but fundamentally friendly. Now, though there was an anger there, but Mary found she didn’t care. He was President of the United States, sure, but he wasn’t a king.

“Before you cut her head off, I’m team Mary here,” Francis said, still sounding tired. “I am my own person. I also don’t work for you. Loyola’s flight is landing now, so if you’re going to try and chew anyone out, chew him out—or try to. The budget was shitty. I also want to point out that dragging me here was pointless and led to the complete overturning of the parental planning that I’d made with Lola about looking after Jean, so if we’re going to talk about laying blame about parenting choices, I’m gonna put that ball right back in your court.”

To finish his point, he grabbed a muffin from the middle of the table, took the paper wrapper off it, and ripped it in half.

There was silence after his words, and, seeming to see that whatever it was that his father was going to say was over, Francis dug his phone out of his pocket and began to type out a text.

Mary’s phone buzzed in her lap.

_Francis: Not to mention that we live in an era of infinite technology. Having me and Loyola fly out so that we can have an Air Force One meeting with the president seems like a complete waste of everyone’s time, not to mention the American People’s tax dollars._

_Francis: Which is part of why the budget bill was shitty._

Mary read through his texts then looked at him. He was watching her. She didn’t know what to say so she just smiled.

He texted her again.

_Francis: Thanks also for cutting in. The only thing that would make this worse: my parents sniping at each other as if their parenting of me has anything to do with the issue at hand._

_Mary: Of course._

_Mary: Anything I can do to help?_

_Francis: You’re already helping_

She looked up at him and he gave her a soft smile. His eyes were almost unbearably warm. She wanted to hug him—no not hug. Hold. She wanted to hold him.

She looked down at her phone again and pretended to text someone. She saw Francis look at his phone, then look at her curiously when he didn’t see a text from her.

_Mary: Sorry—thing from James._

It was a weird lie, but one she didn’t think would hurt anyone.

_Francis: All good._

A moment later, he stood, his phone at his ear. “Senator,” he said, stepping away from the table, and Mary almost sighed with relief. The president was now talking to the communications director, going over the rewrite of his speech now that the budget bill was dead. Catherine was reading a newspaper. Mary got up from the table, wanting a moment to herself.

She could text James and tell him about it. He would be supportive, he would listen, he would be protective of her heart in a way that she felt so desperately like she needed right now. She even trusted him not to tell Greer if it came up while they were flirting. James was loyal to her—more than she had any right to expect because loyalty in her family sometimes meant loyalty to the broader sense of family and less to the individual.  

 _I should be old enough to protect my heart myself by now,_ she thought angrily. After Bothwell, and Darnley, and Gideon, and Louis—and Francis the first time. After dreams of him dying in her arms that could still fuck her up if they came at the wrong time…as if there were ever a right time.

Was this why she’d kept her distance that whole time? For years of just being cool and isolated—could she even go back to that after all the new dreams she’d been having lately? Did she want to?

She leaned against a wall and closed her eyes for a moment.

She saw his face in that dream as they’d danced under the stars.

“Everything all right?” Catherine asked her and Mary almost jumped out of her skin.

“Fine,” she said at once. “Headache.”

“Well, have some of that ibuprofen you keep in your purse,” Catherine responded. “And pretend you have an excuse for me to get away from here, because Henry is in a foul mood and quite frankly I don’t need to baby his ego right now.”

“Don’t you have a call with Charlotte about school lunch initiatives?”

“Right you are,” Catherine said, and the two of them left together towards the hotel elevators.

When they were safely inside with Catherine’s agents, Catherine gave her a sharp look.

“I saw you texting with Francis,” she said and Mary stiffened. “Don’t say anything. Just know that I saw. And I like you, Mary. I like you a good amount. But I like my son more—so don’t play any games with his heart or else you’ll have me to deal with.”

Catherine swept out of the elevator with Mary trailing behind. “I’m not going to hurt him,” she said after Catherine’s back and Catherine paused, looking at her over her shoulder.

She could see Catherine’s mind working, and could tell Catherine was holding back. And when Catherine didn’t say a word but kept walking, Mary felt her skin go cold with a nervousness she had not felt in years.

* * *

_Francis seemed to grow thinner before her eyes. He still slept poorly—and Mary did not doubt that it was fears of the eternal fires of Hell that would keep him awake—and more than once during meetings with councilors he seemed listless, as though he were only barely paying attention._

_And then, one day as she was passing through the hallways, she heard Catherine shout. “Help! Help! The king! Francis!”_

_And Mary flew to his chambers, flew to him because he had collapsed there, his ears bleeding._

* * *

Mary jerked awake as the captain announced that they were descending towards Rapid City.

The seat next to her—usually occupied by Lola—was empty. A moment later Francis came and sat down in it, looking harried.

“How’s it going?” she asked him.

“Oh you know,” he said, looking around. They were just out of earshot of the press pool if he kept his voice down. “Dad’s fuming. Loyola’s stubborn. I’m in the middle and Dad doesn’t want me to be. He keeps trying to get me to side with him, but the more he does it, the more he pushes me to agree with Loyola, which only makes him angrier.”

“He needs to get his temper in order,” Mary said.

“Try telling him that,” Francis muttered. “He’s annoyed at you for sticking up for me earlier. I had a word with him about that. You don’t work for him any more than I do.”

“I’m fairly certain your mother wouldn’t fire me over that comment,” Mary added. _If I hurt you, though, she will destroy me._ She’d never doubted anything of Catherine de Medici less.

“‘Everyone who works for the Federal Government works for me,’” Francis quoted, then rolled his eyes. “It’s going to his head. Sometimes I worry he’s losing his mind.”

Mary squeezed his hand. She was quite certain there wasn’t a poison bible that was making the President see things. Come to think of it, she wasn’t entirely sure that the President read the bible. _And America was once worried about a Catholic king being controlled by the pope. We’ve come so far since JFK._

“The job’s a lot,” she said quietly. “It chews and spits out everyone.”

Francis nodded. “Here’s hoping he makes it out alive.”

She realized she was still holding his hand and released it. He looked down at his hand as she did, then tilted his head back. “The Senator’s flying back to Washington when we get to Rapid City.”

“Are you?” she asked him.

“My father _asked politely_ that I stay for the Rushmore photo op. Since I’m here and all that.”

“Fake an illness?” Mary suggested, and Francis sighed.

“No—there’s no real avoiding this one. I’m just gonna have to grit my teeth and…” his voice trailed away because his father was coming out of a room.

“Mr. President, you really need to sit down, we’re landing,” said someone out of Mary’s line of sight.

The President saw the two of them sitting there and whatever it was that he seemed about to say died on his lips. He gave Francis a very angry look and retreated into the room.

 _What does Kenna see in him?_ Mary wondered, then groaned internally. She still hadn’t actually talked to Kenna about it.

 _And if Kenna finds out about…_ About what? There wasn’t anything between her and Francis. Nothing more than her overactive imagination and subconscious. Kenna couldn’t accuse her of hypocrisy. Francis was single and Mary hadn’t done anything.

Except dream.

She looked at Francis as she heard the wings shift behind them to increase the drag and slow the plane down. He looked back, and his eyes softened as they always did when he looked at her.

_Don’t play games with his heart._

_And what about my own?_

* * *

 

It was dark outside by the time they landed at Andrews. Catherine and Henry got into their limo and it drove off immediately, while Mary made to go over to the vans that would take the rest of the staffers back to several drop-off points throughout the city.

“Do you want me to give you a ride?” Francis asked her, nodding towards the secret service agent who was standing a respectful distance away.

“No,” Mary said slowly. “No, I need to stop by the office.” It wasn’t wholly a lie. She did want to drop off some of the gifts that had been given to Catherine over the course of the trip and which Catherine had promptly handed over to Mary. It could wait until tomorrow, but she felt fairly certain that if she and Francis were alone in a car with an agent for however long it took them to get back to her apartment, the mess in her head would not be able to handle it at all.

Francis nodded. “Text me when you get home,” he said and began to wave when Mary cut him off.

“You don’t need to ask me to text you, you know. I can get home perfectly safely on my own.”

He stilled.

“Sorry,” he said. “I didn’t know it bugged you.”

“Well, it does,” she said. “I know that I was attacked but that doesn’t mean that—”

“I ask everyone,” he said. “You, Lola, Bash, my parents.”

That made her pause. “Really?” Lola never mentioned it, but Lola tended not to bring up things with Francis. What right did Mary have to know any of it? No matter what she dreamed, Francis wasn’t hers—a thought that made her increasingly agitated.

“Yeah,” he said, and his voice was a little throaty. He began to turn away, to head over to the agent and the car that was waiting for him.

Because she couldn’t help herself, because she knew the answer but needed to hear it from him, she asked, “Why?”

He glanced at her over his shoulder, reminding her oddly of Catherine that morning. Except unlike his mother, he spoke. “Because when your girlfriend gets raped and you sleep through all her phone calls about it that night, sometimes you want to make sure that everyone you love gets home safely.”

* * *

_Pain wracked her body, pain unlike anything she’d ever experienced in her life. She screamed, and screamed._

_“I know,” Lola said, taking her hand. “I know, but you have to keep going Mary.”_

_“Keep pushing, your grace,” the physician told her, and all Mary could manage was wordless growl of anger because that was what she was_ doing _she was_ pushing as hard as she could _and as far as she could tell the babies were still stubbornly inside her._

_She heard herself start to cry, felt the way her chest was moving up and down, convulsing or sobbing she couldn’t quite tell. Different pains were mixing with one another, and there was too much for anyone person to feel._

_The room was so hot—why was there a fire?_

_She screamed and pushed again, feeling as though she was splitting open as she did so._

_The door to the chamber burst open and there was Francis, and the only thing Mary could think to say was, “I hate you right now.”_

_Francis paused mid-step, his eyes flickering between her and Lola._

_“Oh, get over here,” Mary snapped and he bit back a smile as he crossed to her side, wrapping an arm around her and taking her hand._

_She squeezed it as hard as she could the next time she pushed, and he squeezed back._

_But none of it seemed to matter—the pushing, the screaming, Francis’ hand in hers. No matter how hard she tried, it made no difference. They were going to stay inside of her forever, she could feel it._

_“You’re close, your grace,” the physician told her._

_“I can’t,” she sobbed._

_“You can, Mary,” Francis murmured, kissing her temple. “You can.”_

_And Mary screamed again, screamed and screamed and screamed._

* * *

 

_Francis: I get the sense that we’re having trouble pretending the last seven years didn’t happen._

_Francis: Is that just on my end?_

They were the first words Mary saw when she opened her eyes in the morning, her head spinning from the most recent dream—vivid pain as she’d yelled and sobbed and given birth to twins—a boy and a girl, James and Anne, perfect, small, beautiful, healthy…

 _Not as much as I’m having trouble keeping these damn dreams out of my head,_ she wanted to say as she read the words.

He’d sent them the night before, after she had gotten home, after she had gone to bed. _Late,_ she thought. He’d barely slept the night before, and then he’d been up at two in the morning, texting her.

_Mary: Yeah, I was feeling that._

She got herself out of bed and into a shower before work. When she finished getting dressed, she saw he’d already texted her back

_Francis: What does that mean?_

She didn’t know.

That had been part of their agreement, hadn’t it? That they would be friends if they could put the past behind them and really start fresh? All of that had seemed to fall away given the new dreams, how she was dreaming of having his children, and making it to Paris, and god only knew what else her sleeping mind would throw at her next. _For all I know, we’ll take over England and start a Valois dynasty across Scotland, England, and France._

Henry, as she dreamed him, would be pleased with that. Hell, perhaps even President Valois would like it too.

_Mary: I don’t know if it means anything._

_Francis: In what sense?_

_Mary: It is what it is. We were going to try not to force it, and our trying not to force it meant not pretending that we didn’t date each other ages ago._

_Mary: It’s easier than I thought it would be. I don’t think it’s a bad thing, unless you do._

_Francis: I don’t._

_Francis: I just don’t want to pressure you._

_Francis: I don’t want you to feel misled by all this._

_Mary: I don’t feel misled._

_Mary: It’s taking getting used to, but it’s not bad. There’s some confusing stuff in there. But I think there always would have been, which is why I was avoiding it for so long._

That much was true. Even if the dreams hadn’t changed, she’d still have memories of sailing with him in that boat he’d loved so much, of riding with him, of kissing him under the trees outside of the castle, of him dying in her arms.

_Francis: Yeah. That makes sense. I was hoping to avoid it._

_Mary: Well, it’s here, so I’ll handle it._

He didn’t reply right away, and it wasn’t until she was on the bus that her phone buzzed again.

_Francis: I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable asking you to text when you got home. I’m sorry._

She read the words twice, could imagine Francis typing them earnestly into his phone, a slight frown on his lips.

She took a deep breath.

_Mary: Thank you._

And then, because she couldn’t help it, because she’d started having too many dreams of Francis, exhausted and praying, she asked,

_Mary: Did you sleep?_

_Francis: ….kinda._

_Mary: Get sleep. Coffee doesn’t count._

_Francis: Yes ma’am._

* * *

“We’re getting dinner,” Mary told Kenna when she saw her in the hallway that day, and Kenna gave her a wary look.

“And if I have plans?” Kenna asked, her jaw jutting out.

“We’re getting dinner,” Mary repeated.

She fully expected to have to hunt Kenna down and was surprised when her friend came to meet her at six as she was shrugging into her coat.

“Figured it would be best to rip the band-aid off,” Kenna said simply. She looked around the office, but there was no sign of Lola, who had disappeared around four as was her wont.

“Chinese?” Mary suggested

“Indian,” Kenna replied, which was how they found themselves in a small Indian joint a twenty-minute walk away from the White House.

“You don’t have to lecture me,” Kenna said quietly when their orders were placed. “Believe me when I say I know everything that’s about to come out of your mouth.”

“So it’s true then? You’re…”

“I am,” Kenna said, her jaw jutting out.

Mary closed her eyes for a moment. “Kenna, this is so stupid. It’s going to blow up in your face.”

“Only if people find out.”

“And you think they won’t? I worked it out, and Francis isn’t far behind me.” That made Kenna’s nostrils flare.

“Are you going to tell him?” she asked, and there was nervousness behind her bravado.

“I wouldn’t do that,” Mary said.

“But you told Lola and Greer.”

Now it was Mary’s turn to hide nervousness behind bravado. “And? I was worried about you, and they are too. They won’t tell anyone and you know it.”

“And what if I didn’t want them to know?

Lola and Greer had each made it explicit who Mary could and could not tell about their present liaisons. Kenna had not. “You would have said so. It would have been the first thing out of your mouth.”

Kenna looked down at her empty plate for a moment.

“Kenna—you have to promise me to be careful,” Mary said and Kenna looked back up at her. “Please. I know—I _know_ you won’t listen to me if I told you not to do it, to call it off, so please just be careful. If this _doesn’t_ blow up in your face, the worst that can happen is Catherine finding out and making your life hell.”

Kenna grimaced. “I know. I’ve been trying to avoid her as much as possible. It’s not like we crossed paths much to begin with, but she’s got a nose like a bloodhound for this—that’s what Hen—” she looked around. “What he says. She sniffed out Diane fast.”

_I suppose it’s in him to be a philanderer…_

“I’m worried he’s just using you,” Mary said quietly. “Please, just promise me you’ll be careful. Guard your heart. If you end up losing your job, you end up losing your job. But if your heart breaks—that’s hard to pull back together.”

Kenna’s eyes softened and she leaned forward. “I’m being careful. I know what the situation is. I _don’t_ think he’s just using me. I do actually think he cares.”

Mary bit her tongue. Dreams weren’t real, they weren’t. Even if this was so close to what she dreamed. _Will she marry Bash, then?_ Bash wasn’t even in Washington and avoided it like the plague.

“Well, if you’re ever in over your head, you call me,” Mary told her friend. “That hasn’t changed. Even if I think this is very stupid.”

Kenna smiled at her. “I’m glad to hear that,” she said. “I was worried you were going to give me an ultimatum—you were being so forceful about dinner tonight.”

“I wouldn’t,” Mary said. “But I do want you to be clear that I don’t approve of this.”

“Oh, I never doubted that.”

“And I don’t want to hear any details about it ever. It’ll be easier for me to hide it from Catherine if…” her thoughts trailed away and she frowned.

What if Catherine found out, and blamed Mary for not telling her? Catherine de Medici was not someone to cross. Would she understand her being more loyal to her friend than to her boss? Or would she see it as kin to if Mary broke Francis’ heart again. Fear crept up her spine. _Secrets upon secrets._

And this one she was more scared of than any of them. This one wasn’t just people asking her to withhold information. She couldn’t even imagine what would happen if the American people found out.

Kenna saw the nervousness in her face. “Don’t worry about it,” Kenna insisted. “No one will find out. I promise. It won’t be as bad as you fear.”

But how could it be anything else?


	4. Chapter 4

_“Leave us,” Mary told Margot’s companions.  “I will dress her.”_

_The two girls—god they were so young.  Had Mary been that young when she’d first come to France?—looked nervously between Margot and Mary as they scurried from the room.  Margot’s blue eyes—the same blue as Francis’—were wide as she clambered from her bed in a thin shift.  Mary recognized neither girl—they must have come to court while she’d been in Scotland, which in this instance was for the best.  To them, she was a queen who had been gone for nearly a year, the sort of cold woman who would leave her infant twins behind in order to rule her own kingdom in her own name when her kingdom had need of her.  She could be, to them, a version of Catherine for all they knew—and anyone who styled herself after Catherine was a person to fear._

_The moment the door closed, Mary’s face softened and Margot grinned at her, visibly relieved.  “I was wondering if Francis had told you,” she said softly.  “For a moment, I thought you were truly angry with me.”_

_“Of course not,” Mary said and she crossed to the wardrobe, opening it and running her fingers through the hanging silks.  “It was very clever.  Too much of a lie and Knox would sniff it out of you in an instant, but if he thinks that you are defying your catholic brother in favor of the protestants you will one day rule in Navarre…” she smiled at Margot.  “It was very clever.”_

_“I thought the fewer things I needed to keep track of, the better,” Margot said, smiling modestly.  How unlike Claude she was.  How unlike_ Catherine _she was.  “I shall just have to remind myself that you’re not truly angry with me,” she said._

_Margot had grown tremendously in the six months that Mary had been gone, but in that moment, she looked more a child than a girl wending her way to womanhood.  Mary selected a dress for her—something modest and unadorned that might meet with Knox’s approval._

_“I am proud of you,” Mary said.  “And grateful.  Anything we can do to keep Knox here as long as possible.”  The reverend hadn’t even wanted to come to France.  He had suspected—correctly—that Mary would seek to break his grasp on the protestants of Scotland, but when it had come between dealing with her or dealing with her king…she had correctly assumed that his hatred of women would bring him to France._

_And now Francis was to go to Rome to try to appease a pope irate with the knowledge that the king of France and the queen of Scots were actively seeking to protect the Protestants in their lands...  She had only just returned, and he was going to leave already.  She had longed for him during all those months in Scotland, and how bittersweet their reunion had become.  At least she would have the twins to comfort her in his absence this time._

_And, of course, this game with Margot._

_“Now remember,” Mary said, helping Margot into the gown.  “He will assume you are stupider than you are, so be cleverer than you think you are.  He may think you are stupid, but he will expect duplicity at every turn, for you are three things he does not trust: female, catholic, and royal.  Give him no reason to doubt you.”_

_“I won’t,” Margot said earnestly.  “Mary—do you think…do you think it will be all right if I do learn from him?  About protestants, I mean.  Not about anything else.  For when I am in Navarre.”_

_Mary pulled at Margot’s laces.  “Only if you promise not to take what he says as gospel.  One of the benefits—I am told—of Protestantism is that they all tend to disagree with one another.  If something he says sits wrong with you, you do not need to accept it.  His tutelage may prove useful to you when you are Queen of Navarre, so I don’t see why you wouldn’t take what you can from him.”_

_Margot nodded._

_“Guard your heart,” Mary continued.  “He may seek to play it, and you must seem to let him.  But if he truly reaches your heart, you are in danger and must come to me at once, do you understand.”_

_“Yes, Mary,” Margot replied.  She stood taller.  “I shall be strong, though.  He won’t break me, just as he has failed to break you.”_

_Mary kissed Margot’s cheek.  “You are my sister, and your mother’s daughter, and will be queen one day.  You are made of sterner stuff than he will think.”_

_“But I must appear sweet and delicate.  Perhaps I can stage a fight with Claude,” Margot’s eyes were shining.  God, she had Francis’ eyes.  If there was one thing that Mary regretted, it was that neither of the twins had his eyes._

_“Don’t stage fights,” Mary said.  “It will be easier if as much of it can be as genuine as possible.  I learned that the hard way,” she said.  She looked Margot up and down.  “Are you ready?”_

_Margot nodded._

_Mary pulled the glare back on her face and Margot’s eyes dropped to her hands, the eager glow in them dying.  “So you would defy me in this?  And your king?”  Her voice was loud enough to carry through the door to the guards standing outside._

_“One day my duty will be to Navarre.  I must learn what I can about Protestantism when such an opportunity has presented itself.  You were the one that brought him here.”_

_“I do not like it, Margot.”_

_“I will not be swayed.”_

* * *

 

September bled into October and the White House was still waiting for a budget bill to sign. 

The whole situation had Catherine fuming.  “I don’t want this being weighed down by Henry’s ineptitude,” she told her staff angrily one afternoon.  “It’s not as if the news media can’t think of a plethora of ways to bring this bill down just because of their own incapacity to address their own cyclical patriarchy.”  She rolled her eyes.  “So we keep researching, I suppose.”  But clearly her husband’s weakness was something that was starting to concern her—at least because it was preventing her plans from going into motion.

Mary found the whole situation frustrating to say the least.  It felt like nothing was going, nothing was moving, nothing was changing.  Greer still wanted secrecy about her relationship with James and was generally reticent on the subject, Lola had yet to tell Francis about Stephane Narcisse, and Kenna was still, as far as Mary could tell, sleeping with the president.

Even things with Francis had not changed much.  They texted every now and then, but his attention was fully on the budget bill as Mary’s was on her preparations for Catherine.  She hadn’t seen him in person, which made it hard to talk to him because the things that weren’t work that were occupying her mind were a combination of things she couldn’t tell him for reasons spanning “I promised I’d tell no one,” to “you’ll think I’m crazy.” 

He had been oddly absent even from her dreams, too.

She was used to dreams without him, of course.  Before the dreams had changed, there had been dreams of Scotland, dreams of France after he had died, dreams of Louis, dreams of her twenty years imprisoned.  Now though…

She still dreamed of Scotland, but this time, she went not as a widow, but as a mother.  Unrest and fear of war with England brought her back to Edinburgh, leaving her twins Anne and James behind with Francis.  Francis had promised her soldiers to protect the English border, and she never again had to fear that it might be politically inopportune for France to send men to Scotland’s aid: the king was protecting his son’s birthright from the English.  Margot, as Charles and Henry had done in her original dreams, aged rapidly and, it seemed, based on the need of the story, for she had been so small a girl in her early dreams that she’d not even been a presence at all.

He was not there—neither in her dreams nor in her life in Washington—and the absence of him was almost maddening.  _Absence makes the heart grow fonder,_ she’d remember hearing as a young girl, watching Disney’s _Robin Hood_ movie.  In truth, absence made Mary Stuart more impatient as she began to speak, quietly to staffers in the women’s caucus of the House to make sure that, when Catherine submitted her bill to congress, it would have a flood of support rather than being torn apart completely.

Mary was exhausted, she was sleeping poorly, and she was starting to feel that fuzzy-throated feeling that comes when one knows one is about to get sick for the first time that year.

_Francis: Remember that time I needed you to protect me at Henry’s birthday thing?_

_Mary: Rings a bell._

_Francis: Are you at the thing tonight?_

_Mary: I had been planning to skip.  I’ve been feeling on the verge of a cold and was hoping to avoid it.  Do you need backup?_

_Francis: Not so much backup as someone who won’t let me beat up Stephane Narcisse if I see him tonight.  Lola was supposed to come with me but she just said she can’t._

Mary switched text windows immediately.

_Mary: Are you flaking on Francis because he mentioned something about Narcisse?  He’s asking if I can help keep him from beating him up.  What does he know?_

_Lola: I didn’t want to get in the middle of anything in case I said something and made it worse.  Francis still doesn’t know._

She switched back to Francis, who was still typing.

_Francis: If you’re feeling sick, you don’t have to come by any means.  You should absolutely take care of yourself.  However, if you want to watch congressional blood sports and be the friend I need to tell me to chill the fuck out when the Good Senator From Pennsylvania is nearby and want me to be eternally in your debt…_

_Mary: I never thought I’d see you beg.  You must be desperate._

_Francis: I am.  Help me Mary Wan Kenobi.  You’re my only hope._

Which was how Mary found herself going through her closet, finding a black and gold dress that she didn’t think she’d worn to anything recently, and grabbing a cab to a hotel not too far from the Mall.

“Mary, dear, I thought you were staying in tonight,” Catherine hailed her almost immediately upon entering the room. 

“Truth be told, I hadn’t expected to be here,” she admitted.

“Then go home.  I don’t want you getting sick.”

“If I think I’m getting worse, I will,” she said—truthfully she knew.  No matter how much Francis might say he needed her—or anyone, she reminded herself, she was probably his last call—then she was equally confident that if she looked worse for wear, he’d send her home.  He was like that.

As if thinking of him summoned him to her mind, he texted her.

_Francis: I’m in the bar when you get here._

“I’m going to find a drink,” she told Catherine.

“Alcohol is bad for your system if you’re getting sick.”

“Catherine, you can’t go publicly worrying after me.  People might think you’re maternal.”

The bar was loud, and crowded, and full of men talking loudly and in suits.  It was a small room, and cramped and Mary could see no sign of Francis.

_Mary: Where in the bar?_

She looked up from her phone and around the room, hoping for a sign of his blond hair. 

“Well if it isn’t Mary Stuart.”

Mary sighed and turned.

“Senator Narcisse.  Charmed, as always.”

Narcisse stood over her with a sardonic gaze that only just covered a coolness to his expression.  “Now,” he said.  “I would have thought that you wouldn’t be far from Ms. De Medici.  Or are you on the prowl tonight?  Whose blood are you after this time?”

“I’m not out for blood just yet, Senator,” she told him breezily.  “Though of course, I was promised a blood sport tonight, so that may change if you don’t leave me be.”

“And who promised you a blood sport?” Narcisse asked, bemused.  “Ms. De Medici?  She’s always been one for the more…subtle altercations.”

“For which you commend her I’m sure.”

“It certainly makes the game better.  You, though.  You are not nearly subtle enough to entertain me.”

“I come by it naturally,” she said simply.  “My friends and I quite like to be direct.  But surely you knew that already.”

Narcisse’s eyes flickered and he was about to say something when Mary felt a familiar hand at the small of her back.

“Senator,” Francis said easily.  “Why am I not surprised to find you accosting young women in bars.”

“Oh, not my style,” Narcisse said, “Ms. Stuart and I were just having a little chat.”  He forced a smile in Mary’s direction.

“That so?” Francis asked.  “And what were you chatting about?”

“Friendship,” Mary said and she smiled up at Francis.  “Lola texted.  She wanted me to keep you out of trouble.”

“Well by all means don’t let me interfere with that,” Narcisse said dryly and he turned on his heel and made his way through the crowd.

Francis watched him go, his face full of anger.

“I suppose I have already failed in my duty,” Mary sighed as she turned towards the bar.  “Wasn’t I supposed to keep him away from you?”

“On the contrary, I think he’ll steer clear for the rest of the night,” Francis said.  He helped her shoulder her way through the throng of people until she was right at the edge of the bar.  Out of the corner of her eye, she saw one of his usual agents watching them from across the room.

“Two glasses of water,” Mary asked the bartender, who nodded and provided her with them very quickly.  She downed one as if it were a shot, then placed the glass back on the bar, and turned to depart with Francis, who was already holding a half-drunk glass of wine. 

“Out of curiosity,” Mary asked him, “I know you hate Narcisse, and I know _I_ hate Narcisse, but what has you so angry with him that you’re afraid of decking him in a room full of people?  I didn’t realize you were that prone to violence these days.”

She forced herself to suppress memories of Francis in dungeons, threatening Louis with a sword, punching Bash while she begged him to stop, to blame her instead. 

“It’s…” Francis sighed.  “It’s a lot of things actually.”  He jerked his head towards a table in the corner that had just been vacated and they made their way to it, sitting down.  “First off, I just don’t like him.  He’s a slimy asshole.”

Mary nodded wordlessly.  She couldn’t disagree on that front even a little.  “But it’s been three times in the past week that he’s cornered me and tried to bring me in on making Loyola bring home the budget vote.  Something about party and country—as if party were more important than country.” Francis made a disgusted look.  “And he’s trying to threaten me into it, I think.  Or shame, or bully, or something.  Keeps saying I should be the sort of man my son can look up to.  As if I would _ever_ want my son to look up to a man who does whatever Stephane Narcisse wants and doesn’t stand on principle.  And then, of course, he goes and just…accosts women in the middle of wherever they are.  He just zoned in on you, didn’t he?  I’ve seen him do the same to Lola when she’s at these things—and he did the same to Claude during the campaign. I’m sure he’s got more that I don’t know.  I just…he’s slimy.”  He looked at Mary.  “This all feels very melodramatic when I say it out loud and you’re looking at me like that.”

“You sound a little obsessed,” Mary said.  “I mean, I don’t much like the man, and all that made sense.”

“But…” Francis prompted her.

“Well, I suppose it is you.”

His eyes narrowed, though there was a half-smile on his lips.  “And what’s that supposed to mean?”

“You like it when things go your way.”

“And you don’t?” he laughed.

“I do, but you have a very…particular way about getting it.”

“Which is what?” he asked, and she could see from his smile that he was getting defensive.

“I suppose a singular particular way was wrong.  There are a few.  But this is one of them.”

“Mary—”

“You just sort of dive in to things you think are right.  And when you know you are right there’s this sort of…righteous energy to it.  I don’t know, it’s hard to describe.”

Francis’ gaze grew a little distant now, or perhaps a little soft.  It was hard to see in the light.  “Funny,” he said at last.  “That’s precisely how I would have described you.”

Mary felt suddenly very warm, and she took a sip of her water.  “I never said it was a bad thing,” she said quietly.

“Nor did I,” Francis replied quietly, leaning forward.  “I admire it, you know.”

Mary shifted in her seat, crossing her legs.  “I do know,” she said.  _You always have._

_In the darkest times, you were my conscience._

Francis was watching her, and Mary felt both hot and cold in a way that she had not felt in years.  His gaze was so steady, so open, so unlike the Francis she had gotten used to as they’d led separate lives.  This was almost like Francis as she’d known him in college.  Except it wasn’t. 

It was more like Francis as she’d known him in her dreams.

“I’ve had—” she began to blurt out but before she could finish saying _dreams about you_ , a man stumbled sidelong into their table, knocking it over, their glasses smashing against the floor.

“I’m sorry,” the man said, and when he looked up at Mary, she recognized him instantly, even if she’d never met him before in her life.  _Tomás_.  She shivered again as she watched him and Francis right the table.  She didn’t say a word to him—she did not want to.  She refused to believe that he was the same man as one who had manipulated her and slapped his servant to chastise her—but she did not wish to tempt fate more than she already did.  When he was gone, Francis looked at her curiously.

“You were saying?” he asked her.

“I can’t remember,” she lied.  It would be stupid to tell him.  So very stupid.  She still felt that chill from when Tomás had looked at her. 

“I’ll go and get us fresh drinks,” he said, “Do you want more water?”

“Yes please,” she said and he was gone. 

It was very hot in the room, but Mary felt cold.  _Fever_ , she thought.  She opened her purse to see if she had any pills in there, but this one was devoid of them.  When she looked up her heart stopped for a moment because she saw a woman with red hair in a long, fishtail braid and was _sure_ it was Elizabeth.  _No.  No, I don’t want to meet her now.  I don’t want—_ but when she turned and laughed at her companion, Mary saw that it wasn’t.  She felt dizzy and got to her feet, knowing only that she needed air.

_Mary: I’m going back out into the main room.  It’s too hot and loud in the bar._

She leaned against a pillar near a lamp, hoping that the bulb would warm her up slightly.

“Does Francis know?  Have you told him?” Narcisse was standing in front of her.

“What?” Mary asked, shivering.

He frowned.  “You’re not well,” he said.  “Let me call you a cab.”

“No,” Mary said firmly.  “I’m fine.”

“You’re clearly not,” he said, “Though I suppose you are too stubborn to admit it.”  She glared at him and he glared back.  “Did you tell him about me and Lola?”

“Lola told me not to, so I won’t,” Mary said and Narcisse looked a little too relieved for her to leave it there, “But I won’t lie to him either.  If he guesses, I’ll not deny it.  So you had better watch yourself.”

“I can take care of myself,” Narcisse said.  “Though I thank you for the warning.”

“Warning?  It was a threat,” Mary said.  “I don’t like this at all.  I don’t think you’re worthy of my friend, and I don’t for a second blame Francis for wanting you as far from his life as possible.”  Narcisse narrowed his eyes at her, but didn’t say a word.  “What?  No clever comeback.”

“I’ll save one for when it’s worth it,” he said softly.  “Think of me what you will, I care tremendously for Lola.  And if you would try to scare me off—well—I can safely say that I’m glad you love her so fiercely.  But be aware: I’m not going anywhere.”

“Nor am I,” Mary retorted.  “Now leave me alone, will you?”  And he did.

A moment later her phone buzzed.

_Francis: I was just wondering where you’d got to.  Be right out._

And then again,

_Lola: Stephane says you’re sick and should go home.  Are you all right?_

Mary rolled her eyes at the phone and was trying to think of a reply when Francis appeared next to her, holding a glass of water.

He took one look at her and said, “I’m taking you home,” he said.

“I’m fine,” Mary said.

“You look like you’re dying. I shouldn’t have dragged you here.”

“I’m not dying.  I’m just a little sick.  You should stay.  One of us should at least rub elbows with…” she waved a hand.

“At least let me put you in a cab.”

So she did.

The next half an hour was a blur, Mary holding her jacket tightly around her in the back of her cab as she shivered against the cold. 

She stumbled up the staircase in her apartment building and collapsed on her bed, cocooning herself in her blankets without even getting undressed.

She was half asleep when she reached for the phone on her bedside table.

_Mary: Home safe.  Sleeping now._

Francis replied immediately.

_Francis: Feel better.  Sleep well._

* * *

 

_“Just to sleep,” she told him.  She had told him so for the past two nights, ever since he had started joining her in her bed again, now that his fever had broken and his ears had stopped bleeding._

_“Of course,” he replied simply, as he did both nights before, sliding beneath the covers.  “Good night, Mary.”_

_“Good night, Francis.”_

_When she closed her eyes, she tried to push everything from her mind—the crackle of the fire, the periodic sound of a guard passing her room, the sound of Francis’ breath—so alive—and the warmth in the bed next to her for the first time in months._

_She’d grown unused to having him there.  Where once she couldn’t have fathomed sleeping apart from him, now she was distracted by him.  He was so close to her, and though they were not touching she could feel him—the way the blankets draped over her differently when they also had to cover his body, the way the bed moved when he shifted._

_His breath did not grow steadier, and when Mary turned her head to look at him, she saw his eyes glinting in the darkness, watching her._

_“Do I keep you awake?” he asked her._

_“Yes,” she said, “but not—” He was frowning and she did not want him to mistake her, “not for—for fear, or being ill at ease.  I’m just growing used to you again is all.”_

_Francis propped himself up on his elbow, inching his face towards hers.  She met him with a kiss so soft and slow that it was unlike any kiss she’d ever had._

_There had always been a passion in the way that Francis had kissed her—a neediness that had brought his lips to hers the first time that he had kissed her towards dawn on the day that he had told her that she should marry Portugal, a neediness when he’d kissed her after the Italians had taken the castle, a neediness that had filled the space between them when she’d chosen him to marry.  It was so much of how they were together, or how they had been before everything had happened.  But this…_

_This was slow and steady, gentle—not pushing, not demanding, simply relishing the way her lips felt against his, as if he enjoying the taste of her the way he enjoyed still breathing.  Reverent, somehow.  And, she found, she did not wish to break the kiss at all, because to break it would be to say she wanted—needed, perhaps—something else, something more than what they were in this moment. She could break the kiss, or deepen it, or simply keep the course of it steady for as long as she wanted.  Francis always knew what he wanted, and when they’d made love before, he had never been afraid to make that known.  But Mary had said they would only sleep tonight, and he had agreed._

_His tongue traced her lips but did not push its way into her mouth.  His hands caressed her hair, but did not hold her there.  She wondered if he did that on purpose, and thought it was more than possible that he did._

_Yet the longer he kissed her like that, the less sure she was of what she wanted anymore._

_“Francis,” she whispered to him, and she was shaking.  Was it nerves?  Was it fear?  Was it something else?  She wasn’t sure._

_The only thing she was sure of was that everything inside her was pointing to him in that moment, and if she didn’t listen to her heart, she was a fool._

_He looked at her, his eyes reading her expression, his hand running over her cheek.  She shifted on the bed, pushing herself over him and kissing him gently.  She reached a hand down between them and found the laces of his trousers.  He let her pull him loose, let her run her hands over the familiar softness of his skin.  He ran his hands over the fabric of her nightgown, and asked her, quietly, “Do you want this on?”_

_“I…I don’t know.”_

_So he did not tug it over her head from her.  His hands stayed at her sides, and he kissed her slowly, deeply, and this time, she opened her lips for his tongue.  She stroked him, her hand remembering just how he liked her to hold him, just how much he needed to stiffen against her palm._

_And he did.  His breath hitched as she held him and he ran his hands along her side tentatively.  He let his head fall back on the pillow and when she looked at him, saw him watching her with eyes half-hooded but his gaze anything but lazy._

_Maybe it was the gaze that did it, or maybe it was how strange it was that he was lying back, watching her when ordinarily if she had her hands on him like this, he’d be everywhere at once.  He liked touching her, his hands roving freely over her skin. He loved her, and he loved loving her, and she loved his loving her.  Or she had.  Couldn’t she still?_

_Would they share her bed forever?  It had been months.  They were dead, and Francis—Francis lived._

_Mary sat up and tugged her nightdress over her head, then leaned forward and cupped Francis’ cheek as she kissed him, hard.  And when their lips met this time, there it was, that fire she always felt pooling in her stomach that seemed to come from nothing more than his lips against hers with all the energy he could muster.  She let the warmth of it flood her veins, let his hands in her hair, along her back, over her jaw calm whatever nerves she felt as she pulled herself closer to him._

_When she slid herself onto him, he stilled for just a moment, breaking their kiss to look at her.  He brushed hair out of her face with one hand while the other drifted down to cup her ass.  “Are you all right?” he asked her, and Mary took a deep breath._

_Yes, yes she thought she was.  So she bent down and kissed him again, and rode—slowly, at first, but faster and faster with time—rode him until they were both gasping._

* * *

 

Mary woke shivering. 

She stumbled to the bathroom and found her thermometer.  Two minutes later, she knew she had a fever and stumbled back to bed with a glass of water, pulling her blankets around her as tight as they would go.

* * *

 

_What was the good of any of this now?_

_He was infuriating._

_She had loved Francis for the scope of his thoughts once, for the way he thought in terms of futures unknown, of grand visions, of the world writ large before them.  How she hated this._

_Of all the things she had expected when she’d imagined him returning from Reims, this was not one of them.  Francis demanding her love, saying he’d wait for it, needing it, longing for it, yes.  But Francis seeing their love as not mattering if he was damned to hell?  That she could never have expected.  And the sheer fact of it should have eased her mind, should have filled her with relief, should have made her feel better because she did not have to pretend anything anymore.  He had released her of that._

_Instead, she found herself watching him, as if looking for signs that all this was a lie.  He had lied to her before, after all—done so, as he claimed, for her own safety.  But this was a far deeper ruse than that if it was a ruse, and Mary was starting to suspect that it was not.  He prayed every morning in the chapel, and every evening after dinner.  He wore simple clothes—forgoing the richness of the wardrobe he’d worn for most of his life.  He did not stay long at parties and feasts._

_Sometimes, she thought she caught him watching her too.  But she was never truly sure._

_“Is he truly like this—even with Jean?” Mary asked Lola.  Surely,_ surely _—Francis would be Francis around the boy he so loved._

_“Yes,” her friend said simply, a sadness in her voice._

_She found herself taking less and less comfort in her friendship with Louis.  He did not understand her fixation with Francis’ behavior._

_“He left you unprotected, and then went off to Reims,” Louis reminded her.  “You don’t owe him anything.”_

_He did not understand, and she did not know how to explain it to him beyond saying, “Francis is my husband and my king.  He is unwell.”_

_That was not what Louis wanted to hear.  He looked around to see if anyone was watching them before stepping forward and saying, quietly, “Mary—you and I don’t have to pretend.”_

_“I’m not pretending,” she said firmly.  It was the first time she had lied to Louis, but even as she did so she felt herself standing up straighter.  Who was he to presume he knew her mind in this matter?_

_“You said you wanted to lead separate lives,” Louis reminded her.  “You said that was what_ he _wanted too.”_

_“So I am to remain unconcerned when I see my king so clearly in distress?  He is my king.  Am I not to feel concerned with the state of his being—what it might mean for me, for France, for Scotland?”_

_Louis’ face gentled.  “And are you sure that you can help him?  That he is not truly lost?  There can always be…”  But his voice trailed away when he saw her face._

_“Don’t say what I think you’re going to say,” she breathed.  “Do not say it, Louis.”_ Do not breathe life into the fears that made me bring him back to court to begin with.

_“I do not want it,” he said quickly.  “I have no desire to see Francis supplanted.  But if it is France you fear for, and your alliance, he is not the only person who—”_

_“Are you working with your brother then?”_

_“What?”_

_“To supplant him.  Is that why you are still at court?”_

_“Mary—I’m still at court because I lo—care about you, and would see you safe.  What Antoine wants is his own to want.  I can no more claim it as my own nor prevent him from the wanting.”_

_“You swear it?”_

_“Yes.”_

_Mary wanted to believe him, wanted to be comforted by him as she had been these past few months, wanted to be happy again at last._

_But there was something in his eyes._

_And she knew he was lying to her._

_Why did everyone lie to her?_

* * *

 

_Francis: How do you feel?_

_Mary: Like death._

She wasn’t even entirely sure she was being melodramatic.  Her throat was closed in a way that had her wonder if it would keep on doing that and she’d stop breathing soon.  Her fever had not risen—she’d taken her temperature again—but her throat hurt far too much to let her eat.  Her blankets were not enough to keep her warm so she had put on the sweats she usually wore at the gym.  She shivered even as she sweated her way through them.

_Francis: Do you want me to come take care of you?_

_Mary: God no.  You’ll get this, and then you’ll die too.  I won’t be the cause of your death._

She changed chat windows and texted her Marylanders.

_Mary: If I die, I bequeath unto you my wardrobe._

_Lola: Oh no—did it get worse?_

_Greer: Maryyyyyy_

_Kenna: What’s going on?_

_Lola: Mary wasn’t feeling well last night._

_Greer: Do you want me to come over and make soup or something?_

_Mary: If you and Lola come over, you risk giving this to your kids and that’s not gonna end well for anyone.  I’m being melodramatic.  I’m sure I’ll be fine._

_Kenna: Well, if you need someone to sacrifice their health to take care of you, I’m a call away._

* * *

 

_She knew James from the seal he wore about his neck as she dismounted from the horse.  He looked older somehow than when he had come to France.  His jawline seemed stronger than she’d remembered it.  He smiled at the sight of her._

_“Your majesty,” he said, bowing and kissing her extended hand._

_“Brother,” she said warmly, and embraced him._

_“I am sorry to have called you away from your children,” he said earnestly, and Mary pulled a smile to her face that would hide the pangs she felt every time she thought of them, small and wiggling and smiling at the sight of her.  Her breasts ached from undrunk milk and she would need a moment, and soon, to empty them.  She hoped they got the idea, and soon, that her children were far and stopped producing milk, for the way they grew heavier every few hours was an awful reminder of what she had left behind in France._

_“And what sort of mother would I be if I did not protect my children?” she asked, “And the lands they will one day hold.”_

_James gave her a look.  “Your mother would say the same.”  His voice was unreadable, cautious, and Mary could not tell if it was a dig or not.  She narrowed her eyes at him and he added, quickly, “She was as fine a regent as we could have asked for.”_

_“Tell me of Knox,” she said taking his arm and letting him lead her into the castle.  “What sort of a man is he?”_

_“He decries,” James responded at once, “You are a woman in a—”_

_“No, no,” Mary said._ That sounded like Catherine, _she thought as she said it.  She had not intended that, but could not help but take some comfort in it.  She was Scotland, and yet the castle in Edinburgh was unfamiliar to her, and did not feel like home the way that Francis’ court had come to.  “You’ve written to me about what he thinks.  I know that.  What sort of a person is he?  Tell me of his life, his family, his personality.”_

_“He is…” James looked about and she could see caution in his eyes.  “He is cunning,” he said quietly.  “And he says all the right words to all the right people at all the right times.”_

_“And his weaknesses?” Mary asked._

_“I have never known him to have one,” James sighed._

_“All men have weaknesses,” Mary said once again with Catherine’s voice.  “It is merely a matter of finding them.  You have had to be careful, James.  And I am grateful for that, otherwise I am confident that there would be more strife than there is at present in Scotland.  But we have the full force of France at our backs now.  I do not need to be careful.  I need Scotland to be secure.  You must continue to be careful when I return to France, but between the two of us, I rather suspect we may be able to find a pattern that shall benefit Scotland.”_

* * *

The next time Mary woke was to a long string of texts on her phone.

_Marylanders_

_Kenna: If I haven’t heard from you by 6pm I am coming over there._

_Greer: Mary, please confirm that you have eaten_

_Lola: Are you asleep again Mary?  Silence for confirmation please._

_Kenna: That won’t work if she’s actually dying._

_Lola: Mary is not dying.  She probably has the flu._

_Kenna: That’s what we thought with Aylee._

_Greer: Aylee was sick._

_Kenna: And then fell and hit her head.  Mary please respond.  I’m assuming you’re asleep because it makes the most plausible sense, but if you’re dead and we missed it I will never forgive myself._

_Kenna: I’m moving your texting deadline up to 3pm._

_Kenna: Mary it’s 2pm you have an hour._

_Mary: Was asleep.  Still feel like death but am not moving.  Have not eaten.  Will get something when my arms don’t feel so heavy._

She changed windows on her phone.  Lola had texted her separately.

_Lola: Francis said that you were not looking good when he put you in a cab last night, and same with Stephane.  Do you need to go to a hospital?_

_Mary: I will if I need to._

_Lola: Do you want us to come over?_

_Mary: I told you no.  I don’t want to give it to you or to Jean._

_Lola: I knew we should have gotten our flu shots already.  It’s scheduled for Tuesday._

_Mary: Lucky me, getting it before then._

_Mary: I’m a cautionary tale._

Her phone buzzed and she switched back to the Marylanders thread.

_Kenna: Ok good.  I’m sending you the coupon that Grubhub sent me for the good soup place near you._

_Greer: That’s generous of you._

_Kenna: Mary may be dying, Greer, now is not the time for caustic remarks._

_Kenna: Now is the time for soup._

Mary switched to another unread thread.

_James: Greer says you have the flu.  I can’t do anything for you but here is a gif of an irish wolfhound puppy and a reminder that you need to replace Sterling sometime soon because you miss him._

_Mary: :hearteyes:_

She switched to the last thread left unread.

_Francis: I feel bad that I dragged you out last night.  Can I bring you soup?_

_Mary: I don’t want to get you sick, and I don’t want to give you germs you’d give to Jean._

_Francis: And if I already got my flu shot?_

Mary stared at her phone, then switched back to her thread with the Marylanders.

_Mary: Kenna, have you had your flu shot?_

_Kenna: I don’t get sick._

_Mary: I don’t want to give this to you, and Francis just offered to come by and he says he’s had his already._

_Kenna: I’m going to read far too much into that text as punishment, I hope you know that._

“Remind me never to tell you about my dream last night,” Mary mumbled at her phone.  She’d been too sick when conscious to really think of it, a thought which relieved her.

She texted Francis.

* * *

_The door burst open and Mary jerked awake, tasting tin in her mouth.  She fumbled for the knife she kept at her bedside.  This time, she would be ready.  This time, they would die before they touched her._

_“Mary, it’s all right,” came Bash’s voice and she sagged without meaning to against the pillows of the bed.  “Or at least—it’s safe here.”_

_“What’s happened?” Francis asked.  Yes.  Francis.  Francis was there beside her.  He had recovered from his illness.  He was better.  So why did her ears feel fuzzy?_

_“The castle is surrounded,” Bash said._

_“What?” Francis’ voice was sharp as the knife in Mary’s hand and he threw the blankets back and climbed from the bed, bending down enough to find his trousers and tug them up his legs._

_“It’s Condé,” Bash said.  “He has the castle surrounded.”_

_There was a ringing in Mary’s ears.  She hadn’t heard that properly.  She couldn’t have.  Louis wouldn’t—he—_

_Bash and Francis were talking, but Mary’s mind seemed to have stopped moving.  She didn’t understand.  And she couldn’t get that ringing out of her ears, couldn’t get that tinny taste out of her mouth._

_“Mary,” Francis said, and she blinked.  He was bending down next to her, half-dressed.  “Mary, it will be all right.”  He kissed her forehead.  “You’ll be safe here, and there will be guards and—”_

_“I have to talk to him,” Mary heard herself say._

_“I can’t allow that,” Francis replied._

_“No—you don’t understand, I have to…”_

_She climbed from the bed now too and it wasn’t until it fell from her slack grip and clattered to the floor that she realized she had still been holding the knife.  She bent down slowly and picked it up.  She needed to get a grip.  She needed to understand what was happening.  Why was this happening?  Louis was her friend—the best solace she’d had in the past few months while Francis had been away.  That he would try and take the castle was…_

_“Mary,” Francis said and his grip on her arm was firm.  She stared at his hand.  Her heart was racing in her chest.  And then his hand loosened and fell to his side.  His voice was less hard now, more gentle.  “We will treat with him in the morning,” he said.  “You and I both.  Together.  Will that do?”_

_Mary swallowed.  She took a deep breath.  “Yes,” she said.  She looked at Bash.  “How many men?”_

_Bash grimaced.  “Too many.  And with our armies off too.”_

_“Damn him,” Francis muttered.  He went to the wardrobe and found a tunic to wear, shrugging it over his head._

_“And there’s more,” Bash said, looking between the two of them now.  “There are rumors…”_

_Francis glanced at Mary and she saw fear there.  “What rumors?” Mary demanded, her voice sounding more solid than she felt.  She crossed to the wardrobe as well and pulled out the first dress she could find.  She would feel better when she was dressed.  That would help.  It always had.  Perhaps it was like the way soldiers felt when they put on their armor—braver, stronger._

_“There are rumors that he has married Elizabeth by proxy.”  Mary froze.  “There are_ rumors _that he means to lay claim to France in the name of the English crown.”_

_“So he will want my head then,” Mary said.  “He’ll want Scotland.”_

_Bash paused.  “He may.”_

_Mary’s hands tightened on the fabric in her hands._

* * *

Mary woke to loud knocking on the door to her apartment, and her brain was too heavy from fever to remember why.

Then she saw her phone flashing.  _Five missed calls from Francis Valois._

She called him. 

“Mary, are you ok?” Francis asked her.

“Sorry, I was asleep,” Mary said.  Or rather, tried to say.  She had no voice at all.

“Mary?”

“I’m coming to the door.  Just a second,” she rasped and hung up the phone.  She climbed from the bed, keeping her comforter wrapped around her like a cloak and stumbled across the dark apartment to the door, which she unlocked and opened.

Francis was standing there with his agent.  He gaped at her.

“Ok, you need help,” he said and he stepped past her into the apartment.

“Do you want to come in too?” she rasped at the agent, who smiled.

“With all due respect, ma’am, I don’t want to be any closer to you than I already am.”

Mary couldn’t even blame him.  It was the smart choice.  So she closed the door behind him.

Francis was in her kitchen already, depositing the bag full of soup containers on her counter. 

“Are you congested?” he asked her, and she shook her head.

“My throat feels tight.”

“I can hear that.”  He gave her an appraising look.  “Sit down,” he told her and she did, flopping over onto the couch in a very ungraceful movement, tugging her comforter close around her.  She heard him moving about the kitchen.  “Bowl or mug?” he asked her.  Mary made a noise that wasn’t a word—or rather tried to.  It came out something like a voiceless meow.  “Mug,” she heard him mutter.  She heard him open and close the microwave, heard buttons beeping as he pressed them, then the gentle thrum of the thing as the soup began to heat in it. 

“Is it safe to assume you haven’t moved today and thus haven’t eaten or drunk anything?” Francis asked. 

Mary tried to make another sound.

“This camelback is yours?” Francis asked.  “Of course it is.  You live alone.  I’m going to fill it with water for you so you don’t have to move your head to drink.”  He didn’t wait for her reply and a moment later the nozzle of the water bottle was inches from her face.  “Drink.”

She did.  Or rather tried.  Her throat did not particularly want to swallow.  Oddly, however, it felt good to have the rubber nozzle between her teeth.  Behind her, she heard Francis speaking, and from the tone of his voice, she could tell that he was on the phone.

“Yeah, she’s super out of it.  Her voice is gone, she’s not really had anything to eat or drink.  I’d be surprised if she didn’t have a fever.”

“I have a fever,” Mary rasped at him, but he kept talking and she wasn’t sure he heard.  He seemed to be intent on the phone call. 

“I’ll check.  Mary,” he crossed the room, holding a mug of soup, his phone cradled between his shoulder and his ear.  “Can you sit up and drink this?”

She made herself do it, if only because she needed to prove to herself that she could sit up without help.  The mug was warm in her hands and she looked at it.  Chicken noodle soup.  She remembered reading somewhere that Americans were obsessed with its healing properties, even though it was no better than anything else at making the sick better.  But it tasted good and—more importantly—the heat of it in her throat was easier to swallow than the water.

“Can I dig through your medicine cabinet?” Francis asked.  “To see what kind of cold and flu medicine you might have?”

She nodded.  She should have thought of that.  But she hadn’t.  And Francis had.  Or rather, the person he was on the phone with—Lola?  Bash?  Heaven forbid it was Catherine—had.

She heard him reading out brands to the person on the phone, then came out of the bathroom.  “Keep drinking that,” he said.  “I’m going to run to the CVS.  Can I borrow your keys?”

“They’re in my purse,” Mary said.  There was almost some volume to her voice.  Her brain also felt less fuzzy.  The soup was helping.  Maybe the article she’d read was wrong.  More likely, some sort of protein and water was doing good work in her system.

“Be back soon,” Francis told her and she heard him leave. 

She finished the soup in her mug and then sat on the couch, trying to convince herself to move again.  She did not want to, but now that she was up she should probably pee.  And washing her face would help, right?

“Up,” she told herself and got to her feet.

She peed, and stumbled to the sink and stared at herself in the mirror, horror creeping across her.  Her face was smudged makeup and puffy from sleep and sickness.  She hadn’t taken it off the night before and now ran the risk of her skin breaking out on top of feeling like death.  Her hair was sticking out at all angles, too, though she was less concerned about that.  She grabbed her cleanser and scrubbed her face clear.  It didn’t look much better, but at least she could blame the illness for that.  _Besides, it’s not like Francis hasn’t seen me worse._

He’d held her hair back when she’d had the flu in college and was vomiting in the dorm bathrooms.  He’d rubbed her back, and gotten her water and mouthwash when she’d been done.

She’d forgotten about that.

She heard the door open.  “Mary?”

“Coming,” she said and she shuffled out of the bathroom, cloaked in her comforter.

“I take heart in seeing you standing up,” Francis said.  He had a CVS bag in hand and was emptying it of any number of different kinds of flu medication. 

“How much did you get?” she asked.  Her voice sounded ridiculous, even to her own ears, and she could see Francis biting back a smile.  “It’s not nice to make fun of the sick.”

“Sorry, Mickey Mouse,” Francis said and she rolled her eyes.  “Right,” he said, and he turned back to the CVS bag and dumped its contents onto her counter.

“Did you buy out the whole store?”

“Lola wasn’t specific about what kind of Flu medicine to get so I…”

“Bought out the whole store.”

He picked up a box and began to read through the label. A moment later he was placing two huge gel capsules in her hand.  “I’ll grab you more soup.”  He poured more of the chicken noodle soup in another mug, zapped it in the microwave for thirty seconds, then gave it to her for her to down the medicine. 

Mary had a very hard time swallowing the capsules.  Her throat protested intensely with the attempt, and the soup began to melt away the capsule so that the medicine filled her mouth.  Francis rubbed her back as she kept drinking until, at last, the medicine was in her stomach.

“Sit down,” he told her again.  “Or do you want to lie down for a while?”

Mary did not know.  So she took another sip of soup.  It was comfortingly warm.  She closed her eyes for a moment, and without really meaning to, leaned forward and rested her forehead against Francis’ shoulder.

“Bed,” Francis decided and she half expected him to steer her towards her bedroom, but instead he just stood there with an arm around her as if expecting her to fall.

Her eyelids were heavy.  She wasn’t sure she wanted to open them again.  She wasn’t sure she could.  So she nodded into his shoulder and only then did he begin to walk her towards her bedroom.

“Do you want me to stay?” he asked her as he helped her get settled on the bed.  “I can if you like.  If you think you need it.”

“You don’t have to,” she mumbled.

“It’s not a matter of have, or want.  What do you need, Mary?”

She opened her eyes blearily.  Her vision was growing fuzzy, but Francis was there, sitting on the bed next to her.  She made a sound. 

It might have been, “Yeah.” 

Or it might have been, “You.”


	5. Chapter 5

_She awoke to Francis climbing into the bed next to her._

_“Go back to sleep,” he told her, bending over and kissing her forehead._

_She closed her eyes. She ached all over, ached in a way she hadn’t known it was possible to ache. She felt as though her body had been ripped open by the twins, her womb was hot and sore, her back and stomach and legs—even her throat all felt raw, felt used._

_“Hold me,” she whispered and he scooted towards her under the blankets. She twisted onto her side as she had done for months—and promptly twisted right back with a cry of dismay._

_“What’s wrong?” Francis asked sharply. “Mary—are you—”_

_“It’s nothing,” she said, finding his hand. “I just…It felt like my insides were falling out into the space where the babies were.” She kissed him, a quick, close-lipped kiss. “I’m fine. I just never want to feel that ever again.”_

_Francis nodded, slowly. “I marvel at what your body has done today,” he said at last._

_“Today?” Mary asked._

_“That’s why I told you to go back to sleep,” Francis said and he kissed her forehead again. “Rest, Mary.”_

_So she did._

* * *

_So you don’t freak out, I’m on your couch. If you feel like death upon waking, please let me know. – Francis_

The note was on her bed stand, sitting on top of her phone and Mary read it blearily. She picked up her phone and checked the time. It was just past six in the morning.  

She wondered how long she had been asleep. Francis had come by probably about twelve hours ago, and she hadn’t been awake for very long after that. She swallowed, testing how her throat felt. Swallowing still hurt. She sat up. She felt a little less dizzy right now than she had the day before, and more because she wanted to see if she could than anything else, she clambered out of the bed and went into her living room.

True to his note, Francis was on her couch, the blanket she usually had tossed over the back of it wrapped around him and a copy of _Harry Potter_  open on the floor next to him. He looked peaceful there, and part of her felt guilty. _He shouldn’t have had to come take care of me._

Except he had.

She tiptoed to the kitchen area and dug through the boxes of medicine he’d bought the night before, finding one that was drunk rather than capsules and taking a dose of it. She probably should have eaten first, but she didn’t think she’d be able to swallow anything solid at this point.

She went into the bathroom and turned on her shower, letting steam fill the room while she fetched fresh gym clothes to wear. Then she sat on the floor of her shower for a good thirty minutes.

When she came out of the bathroom, Francis was awake, and reading again.

“How do you feel?” he asked her, sitting up.

“Not great,” she rasped. “Better, but not great. Thanks for everything.”

“Of course,” he said. “Do you want me to stick around?”

Mary gave him a smile. “You really don’t have to. I don’t think I’ll get worse—especially if you leave the medicine behind.”

“It’s yours.”

He made to leave, putting on his shoes and finding the jacket he’d worn the night before. “I’d give you a hug but I don’t want to get my germs on you,” Mary said softly to him.

“Flu shot,” Francis said, and it started out playful but his face grew serious as he looked at her.

She wrapped her arms around him and he was so warm, the smell of him was so familiar herself there for a moment.

“Thanks,” she whispered as she pulled away.

“Stay home tomorrow,” he said. “You won’t be better enough. And text me if you need anything.”

“I will.”

And then he was gone, the door clicking shut quietly behind him. She locked it from the inside and went back into her bedroom and threw herself onto the bed, letting herself drift back into unconsciousness, the scent of him still filling her nose.

* * *

 

Mary stayed home sick until Wednesday. She watched her way through several seasons of _Parks and Recreation_ , while her TV played C-SPAN in the background. The budget bill was up for a vote again, and this time, they had the votes even as Loyola was refusing to vote for it.

It passed on Tuesday, and Mary texted Francis.

_Mary: Is your dad rubbing it in your nose?_

_Francis: He’s made a few comments._

_Francis: How are you feeling?_

_Mary: Mostly better. Going back to the office tomorrow._

The office was very busy now that the budget bill had passed.

“‘I come to you today not as the First Lady of the United States, but as a woman, as a mother’— _who_ wrote this? Was this from Henry’s communications team? It stinks of men trying to put words in my mouth. I’m speaking to congress _tomorrow_. I refuse to say these words. Mary. Thank god you’re back. Please fix this.”

Catherine handed her the speech and Mary scanned it, her eyebrows rising up her face as she got further and further along.

“Did it come out of the President’s team?” Mary asked, glancing around the room. Nostradamus nodded to her seriously.

“I knew it,” Catherine said as she sat down behind her desk and leaned back in her chair. “He is trying to get his hands all over this because if it’s successful he wants to say that he was involved. He should go back to figuring out his foreign aid policy since he actually ran on that and _not_ this.”

“I know I’ve been out,” Mary said, “What sort of tone are you going for?”

“My own,” Catherine said. “And please, for the love of god—I am coming before them as First Lady of the United States. They wouldn’t listen to me otherwise and you know it. If I’m going to have a captive audience, they’d damn well better know that I come as myself in all that I am, with every ounce of power that I have gained over the years.”

Mary nodded and retreated to her desk in the bullpen. She read through the draft of the speech again, shaking her head as she did. The whole thing was useless—apart from the bare facts. But those facts were so buried that it didn’t sound like Catherine. _They’re trying to make her sound more maternal,_ Mary thought. _Hiding the hard truths she’d speak about behind nurturing._

That wasn’t Catherine.

She’d use the facts as weapons.

So Mary began to type.

* * *

 

_A full year. It had been a full year since Jean had been born. So much had happened._

_Mary smiled as she watched Francis sitting with his son, sharing the afternoon festivities with Lola, feeding his boy cake on a silver spoon. Jean would be too young to remember this in the years to come, but Mary smiled as she watched Francis dote upon his firstborn._

_She glanced around the garden. There were flowers and streamers and ribbons and gifts, and everyone seemed so happy. Mary could even stomach the looks that the courtiers gave her when they looked in her direction, childless, yet here was her husband the king with his bastard boy._

_She remembered the sharp pain in her womb, the blood on her shoes as she miscarried on the day of Jean’s baptism._

_Well. There was no blood yet. Not for two months. And there was the same sense that everything tasted more intensely when she ate and drank—that scents reached her nose more strongly than ever before. She’d bade the physician keep quiet when she’d gone to him. “_ I fear a miscarriage again,” _she had told him, and he had smiled. “_ You shall have my subtlety, your majesty. It is not uncommon for a woman to miscarry her first child and have many grow in her womb healthily after that.”

“And if I have miscarried twice before now?” _He had merely said that God moved in mysterious ways, which Mary had found wholly unhelpful._

 _Her dress felt tight for she was being careful with her corset. Lola had had the same happen a few months after she’d become pregnant, as Mary remembered. But had it been so soon? Had Francis noticed it in their lovemaking? She didn’t_ think _she looked different just yet, but if her dress was already tight…_

_Mary watched Jean toddle about the garden to greet the other children, one hand in each of his parents’, and she saw Lola glance up at her and give her a hesitant smile. Mary went over to them and crouched down before Jean, kissing her godson on the forehead. “Are you happy today, Jean?”_

_Jean giggled at her nervously, then looked between his parents._ Will he fear me as Bash does Catherine? I want him to love my children as Bash loves Francis.

_She smiled at him and said, “You have brought so much joy into this world. You do not know it yet, but you will one day. You deserve all the joy in the world in return.”_

_When she stood again, Francis was giving her that glowing smile that always made her pause. People could whisper that Lola was his mistress as much as they liked, but it was not true. He never smiled at Lola as he smiled at Mary. “Are you both happy?” she asked Lola and Francis._

_“It’s a beautiful day,” Lola said at once. “The party is so lovely—Kenna pulled out all the stops.”_

_“I think she’s trying to give Jean what I never had,” Bash said and Mary turned to smile at him. “Though I’m not sure I would have wanted the attention.” He reached down and ruffled Jean’s hair. “If you ever grow weary of it, Nephew, you’ll always find peace with me.”_

_“Are things better between you two?” Mary asked. Kenna had had more of a spring in her step of late, and she thought she’d seen some warmth between them._

_“We’re…trying,” Bash said. “There are moments in both directions. I imagine there always will be. But things are better than they have been.” He looked about. “She is good at what she does. I am trying to learn how to appreciate it.”_

_“I’m glad to hear it,” Mary said warmly. “I want you both to be happy.” If for different reasons. It was growing easier to talk to Bash now that he did not look at her with bitter longing. Perhaps his heart had healed. If only she had never broken it._

_At their feet, Jean wriggled and made a noise and Lola said, “I’m sorry—I think he wants more cake.”_

_“Don’t let me keep you,” Mary said. “It is Jean’s birthday. He should eat all the cake he likes.”_

_Francis and Lola and Jean moved away and Bash looked at her. “Are you all right?” he asked her._

_“All right?” Mary asked._

_“I know it’s…” he said slowly and Mary raised her eyebrows._

_“It will happen,” she said. “God did not give Francis a second chance for it not to.” She did her best to bite back the smile behind her words, but Bash’s eyes flickered and she knew he had caught it._

_“Mary,” he said slowly._

_“Yes?”_

_He turned his head and looked out over the party. “I look forward to having one of these for your child one day,” he said. “I’m sure Kenna will outdo herself.”_

_Mart didn’t say a word. She also trusted Bash not to. He was subtle enough by now, and would keep his guesses to himself until she was sure she could tell Francis._

* * *

 

“She can’t say this,” Eduard Narcisse said without greeting when Mary picked up her phone. He sounded so like his father.

“She can’t say what?” Mary asked lightly, leaning back in her chair. She should have known that the communications department would be weighing in on her draft. Mary didn’t write speeches for Catherine frequently—usually when Catherine was going for something very specific—but good god every time she did, Eduard Narcisse called her and tried to convince her that she couldn’t use any of what she’d written. _And_ he did it with the same simpering, smarmy tone his father used whenever Mary talked to him.

“She can’t say…” he lowered his voice, “Look, I’m not the bad guy here. It won’t go over well with the American people.”

“Aren’t you the one who’s always trying to get her to be more maternal?” Mary asked.

“This isn’t maternal?”

“What’s not maternal about a woman telling the American people what they’re too uncomfortable to admit in order to better prepare them for the world?”

“That’s not what I meant—”

“No, you meant you wanted her to smile. You know Ms. De Medici. She’s not going to be the sort of maternal you want to play her as, which is probably why her ratings are so low. Let her be herself.”

“And if I order you to use the speech my team prepared?”

“I don’t work for you,” Mary said simply. “So escalate if you want, but she’s live in an hour, and something tells me that even if the President _tried_ to muzzle her she’d steamroller him anyway. Which is why, I suppose, he’s trying to get you to get me to do it instead.”

There was silence on the other end of the phone.

“Always a joy talking to you,” she said, and hung up on him.

“Was that Eduard?” Lola asked her quietly.

“Yes,” Mary said. “I can’t tell if he’s just bitter we’re not using his speech, or if the President tasked him with handling his wife. Or both.”

Lola took a deep breath. “Something tells me it won’t be the last we hear from him in the next few days.”

“I’d count on it. Catherine is,” Mary said, glancing over at the First Lady. Catherine was standing in a corner, reading through Mary’s draft for the third time.

“Any changes?” Mary asked her.

“Word choices,” Catherine said. “Sometimes this reads like you’re imagining what you would say and put in the opposite for me.”

“As a baseline,” Mary shrugged, and Catherine snorted.

“Well, I’m going to make it sterner.”

“That’ll make the Communications Office happy.”

“Was that Stephane’s boy on the phone? He needs to grow up and let the big girls run the world.”

“He made it sound like he may be trying to be the President’s voice,” Mary said, deciding it was better to warn Catherine even if it wasn’t true.

“And Henry needs to stop getting his lackeys to try and control me just because he can’t. They’re less adept at it than he is.”

Lola came over to them. “We’re getting some preliminary coverage.”

“CNN? NBC?”

“Fox.”

“What have I done wrong this time? Overstepping my role as First Lady?”

“The American People didn’t vote for Catherine de Medici,” Lola read from her phone. “She oversteps on several major constitutional fronts and—”

“You don’t need to continue. I don’t need to hear anything that Fox News has to say. I can infer their stupidity on my own.”

Mary bit back a smile as the door to the room opened, and Senator Narcisse came in. “Ma’am, they’re ready for you.”

“Thank you, Stephane,” Catherine said and she swept past him. His eyes flickered from Lola to Mary.

“I hope for your sake that the First Lady’s speech is well received,” he said to her quietly as she passed.

“She seemed pleased with the draft,” Mary said, knowing exactly what he was inferring and firmly ignoring it.

He narrowed his eyes but Mary didn’t wait to give him another word before hurrying to catch up with Lola, looping her arm through her friend’s.

No one could ever say of Catherine that she wasn’t charismatic. She was ever dynamic in her delivery and more than once Mary saw congressmen shift uncomfortably in their seats as she went over in intense detail how loopholes in the current laws left victims at the mercy of an uncaring system, and sometimes unable to avoid those who had assaulted them. She made no jokes, she made no equivocations. “We must make the world the sort of place that our children will be safe in—regardless of their gender. For it is not now—and it has never been.”

At the end of the end of the speech, she strolled her way down the aisle of the chamber, to applause—some heartfelt and some perfunctory—as she exited.

Mary’s phone rang in her hand, the number blocked. “Yes?” she asked, picking it up.

“Put her on the phone,” came the President’s voice. He sounded stern.

“Ma’am, your husband,” Mary said, handing Catherine the phone.

“Darling,” Catherine said as she put Mary’s phone to her ear. “Let me step into a room.” She did, closing the door behind her.

“What’s in the news?” Mary asked Lola while they waited and Lola pulled up Twitter.

“The Left’s energized, the Right’s furious, so pretty much as expected,” Lola replied. “Your mother just tweeted.” She turned her phone to face Mary, who read, _@CathDMDV spoke bravely on a subject too many men are too cowardly to address. Call your reps. Make yourself heard. #womentakethemidterms #yesthisbill_

“I was hoping she’d be more cutting,” Mary said dryly, remembering the framed picture on her mother's wall that contained every single insult she'd called Henry Tudor over the years.

She scrolled through the tag her mother had ended the tweet with and the next tweet below it was one from Elizabeth.

_Too many men define us by our bodies but refuse to protect the people within them. That’s not leadership. That’s not even basic human decency. #VirginianswithCatherine #yesthisbill_

Mary wanted her phone back. But even if she had it, she didn’t know what she’d say. _I wrote the damn speech. I’ve already said what needs to be said. Elizabeth tweeting doesn’t mean I have to prove anything._

A moment later, Catherine came out of the office and handed Mary the phone back. “Well, you got Eduard benched today, thank god. He can’t write for shit—I’m astounded Henry even hired him. Probably sucking up to Stephane. Fat lot of good it did him. I wish Henry had fired him, but I’m sure Stephane’s why he didn’t. Lunch?”

She strolled away with the air of one who was very pleased with herself.

Mary looked down at her phone. She had a bunch of text messages and her email inbox had exploded. She looked at the texts first.

_Marylanders_

_Greer: Mary is this the speech you’ve been working on? It’s perfectttttttt :hearteyes: When can I vote for you?_

_Kenna: Congress is gonna be_ pissed _._

_Greer: Just the old man part of Congress._

_Kenna: So…Congress?_

_Greer: Twitter’s exploding omg. They’re going over #yesthisbill on CNN._

_Kenna: Omg Elizabeth Tudor’s tweet did you see?_

_Greer: I knowwwww_

_Mary: Thanks for the compliments—as a reminder we don’t talk about the rare instances when I’m involved in speech-writing publicly. That’s not how it works._

_Greer: Yes yes. We know. That’s why private chains exist. You’re the best and I would follow you to the ends of the world._

_Kenna: Same._

_Mary: <3_

She switched text windows.

_Francis: You wrote this one didn’t you? Dad’s team certainly didn’t._

_Mary: Our team might have edited the draft._

_Francis: It’s a good speech. Loyola’s reading the draft of the bill now._

_Mary: Good. Hope it meets with his approval_

_Francis: This is one I’d fight him on if it didn’t. I think it will though._

_Francis: In any case—good work._

Catherine was far ahead of her by the time she was done texting and was already on the steps of the capitol building, speaking with reporters, Lola standing not too far away.

Mary felt a hand grip her arm and she twisted to see Stephane Narcisse giving her a very hard look. “I hear my son is off the communications team,” he said. “And I hear it’s your fault.”

“I was under the impression that people tend to be removed from their current projects if they aren’t doing their jobs well. Sounds to me like he’s trying to pivot the blame for his own inadequacies.”

“Does it now?” Narcisse said.

“It was a bad speech. The First Lady didn’t like it. He didn’t know how to handle her will. It’s Eduard’s own failings that you should be angry with. I didn’t have anything to do with it.”

“And yet you were the one who rewrote his work, despite the President’s wishes.”

“As I said earlier, I don’t work for the President. I don’t work for his team. He can make his own decisions about who he employs and in what capacity.”

“Words are meaningless. Actions speak volumes.” His eyes were hard, and Mary could see just how angry he was. _Why is he overreacting like this?_ But of course, the answer came to her immediately. If President Valois cared about his legacy living on in Francis, surely Stephane Narcisse cared about the same of his son. What was it Catherine had said about how men losing some power they had was nothing short of waging war?

“If you truly believe that, then your son is really in the wrong trade. His words were meaningless. His actions were weak and low. It’s a good opportunity for him to find a different way to grow.”

Narcisse’s grip tightened on her arm for a moment before he released it entirely.

“You’ll regret this,” he said quietly.

“Will I?” Mary demanded. “Were I in your position, I wouldn’t make threats—especially about things that are decidedly not my fault.”

“Oh, it wasn’t a threat. It was a fact. One day, your hubris will get you killed.”

“That’s a daring thing to say,” Mary said benignly, glancing at Lola.

“You think your being Lola’s friend will protect you?”

“And you think being whatever you are to her will protect you? I’ve been here long before you had ever met her—I’ve been through it all with her. You think I’m the one who’ll lose her if you and I go toe to toe? Talk about hubris.”

Mary turned and marched away from him towards where Lola was standing. Lola had been watching them, her brow creased in worry. But she didn’t say anything as Mary went to stand next to her, and it wasn’t until much, much later, when they were back in the bullpen and wading through phone calls, emails, and tweets about the bill that Lola texted her,

_Lola: Do I want to know what you and Stephane were talking about?_

_Mary: I don’t know. Do you?_

Lola frowned at her, her eyes sad.

_Lola: I don’t want him to come between us. I don’t want anything to come between us._

Mary stared at the text message for a moment, then looked at Lola and gave her a serious look as she typed without looking at her phone.

_Mary: If Francis and Jean didn’t come between us, I don’t think Stephane Narcisse stands a chance. We’re in it till the end._

_Lola: <3_

_Lola: Also don’t think I missed the first part of that text, but let’s chat about it later_

_Mary: There’s nothing to the first part of that text more than what we’ve already talked about years ago. It’s fine._

_Lola: Except that you and Francis are friends again._

_Mary: So? That doesn’t matter for the #drama of Jean’s conception. Old news. You spend too much time talking with Kenna. And probably Greer. Do you have a separate thread with play-by-plays?_

_Lola: Obviously_

_Lola: Which is also why I care about whatever you and Stephane were talking about. I don’t know if I could bear both you and Francis at his throat._

_Mary: He was angry. He’ll get over it. And if he doesn’t, then that speaks more to his larger character and something you should really steer clear of. But I’d say that of anyone, and not just him._

That much was true. Of that she was adamant. Yet somehow she feared that Lola wouldn’t see it that way.

* * *

_“You’re early!” Catherine said cheerfully. “We weren’t expecting you until the afternoon.”_

_“We woke early and decided to take advantage of the early hour,” Mary said, embracing her mother-in-law. It was so good to be back after months away in Scotland. How much had the twins grown? Were they walking now? “Where is Francis?”_

_“He is meeting with Cardinal Bourdaisière,” Catherine replied. “Rome is seeking to put a stop to his edict.”_

_“Naturally,” Mary sighed. “Let me introduce you to our guest. Reverend Knox, this is Catherine de Medici, my husband’s mother. Catherine, I present you with Reverend John Knox.”_

_“Reverend—welcome to France,” Catherine said in heavily accented English, giving him an icy smile. “You must be weary from the road. Let me show you to your quarters. I should like very much to hear of Scotland as well. We’ll let Mary go see her children, since I know how much she has missed them.” She gave Mary a quick look and swept away with Knox before he could say anything at all. Mary hurried into the castle, her thoughts racing. She had so longed to see her babies, that was true, but if Francis was meeting with the Cardinal, she would be needed there first, wouldn’t she?_ Scotland first, always, _she reminded herself. She had hoped that at least for a moment she would be able to let herself just be Mary before returning to being_ Queen _Mary._

_She opened the door to Francis’ council chamber and found him seated with the cardinal. Both men looked over at her directly as she entered and Francis’ eyes brightened with delight as he got to his feet, the cardinal following the motion, though more slowly. “Mary! I thought you weren’t arriving until the afternoon.”_

_“We were eager to set out this morning,” she said. She gave him a quick kiss before turning to the cardinal. “Cardinal Bourdaisière, I hope you are well.”_

_“I am,” the cardinal said. “Welcome back to court, your grace.”_

_“Thank you,” she said, and she took a seat in a chair near Francis, and both men sat. “Catherine said you were speaking of the edict. I thought it best to come here directly if that was the case.”_

_“Queen Mary, I hope you will speak reason help me put a stop to your husband’s madness. The Holy Mother Church is already imperiled throughout Europe and now he seeks to protect Protestants in France and will not listen to reason from Spain or Rome.”_

_“Francis tends to listen only to reason when it’s reasonable,” Mary said. “I doubt that anything I could say could dissuade him from his desires if neither Spain nor Rome can do so.”_

_The cardinal narrowed his eyes. “You agree with him, then?”_

_“What do I agree with?”_

_“That Protestants should be legally protected by the crown of France.”_

_“Is it not the crown’s responsibility to protect all who live within her borders?” Mary asked. “To provide law and justice to all those who turn to it for just that?”_

_“And that crown is consecrated by the Holy Mother Church.”_

_Francis leaned forward, resting an elbow on the table and running fingers over his chin. “We seem to have reached an impasse,” he said to Mary. “Back and forth we go—by rights, the crown should legally protect all who live within its borders, but the power of the crown comes from the Church.”_

_“Does it?” Mary asked and Francis looked at her sharply._

_“I seem to recall a ceremony with a cardinal placing it on my head. You were there. I’m astounded you don’t remember,” Francis said dryly._

_“Cardinal,” Mary said and she smiled. “How has that worked for you in England? In Navarre? Among the German Principalities. Can you safely say that those protestant kings and queens are not kings and queens, though they have left the church?”_

_The Cardinal shifted uncomfortably. “You misunderstand me,” he began but Mary cut him off._

_“No, I think you misunderstand me, cardinal. I have spent the past eight months in Scotland, to the north of a kingdom on whose throne Rome would seat me, so I can safely say: Elizabeth is queen of England just as I am queen of Scotland. She rules her protestant kingdom that has plenty of Catholics dwelling within it as surely as I rule a catholic kingdom within whose borders dwell thousands of Protestants. How much blood has been shed there because of it?”_

_“I understand you fear for your people, your grace. I understand you would see peace in your realm. But we fear for their eternal souls, and the Holy Father—”_

_“Has the Holy Father ever held life within him?” Mary asked and Francis shifted next to her, his gaze guarded, and his hand floating in front of his lips, hiding either a frown or a smile—she could not tell. “Has he ever watched children of his body grow? I am a queen, a catholic, and a mother. Is it not my holy duty to look after my children, as it was not the duty of the holy virgin for whom I am named? I can assure you—the bloodshed in the name of God has done nothing to stop the flow of Catholics to the protestant faith. It has only served to divide, to entrench them_ further _in their conviction that leaving the Catholic Church is what will bring them to the kingdom of heaven—just as a violent attack by Protestants on my household served no higher purpose than making me convinced I should never leave the Catholic faith under any circumstance.”_

_Mary’s nostrils were flaring and the cardinal’s mouth was open in surprise. Francis was watching her closely, and she saw his eyes begin to glow the way they always did when she was right. It bolstered her._

_“Perhaps the Holy Father could learn a thing or two of what it means to be a mother—to guide gently to the right, rather than force which has proven the opposite of effective in England, Navarre, Germany, and any number of parts of France, and Scotland that are now beyond his reach. This is not how we ebb the flow. If the Holy Father would concern himself with the souls of all of God’s children that they may know peace in heaven, let him. That is why he has sanctified the crowns we wear: that we may allow them the safety of returning to the Holy Mother Church if they have left it. It is on him to bring them to the faith.”_

_Francis leaned forward, and Mary turned to him. “You say make me listen to reason, cardinal. Well I say this: when you lose support, it is because your supporters have lost faith in your argument. Make your argument better, not more forceful, and you will win them back. Perhaps you do not see the true word of God as an argument—I don’t myself—but they do. How else can you win them back when force so clearly does not work?”_

_Francis squeezed Mary’s hand. The cardinal regarded them both, clearly stunned by everything that Mary had just said. “I can assure you,” Mary said, “that the Church shall continue to be held close in the heart of our family, and thus in the heart of both France and Scotland. I can also assure you—I would not support this if I did not think that ultimately it would benefit the Church. Peace more than bloodshed allows for people to consider God.”_

_“You’ve given me much to consider,” Cardinal Bourdaisière said at last, not taking his eyes off Mary. “I am not sure what the Holy Father will think of your position on the matter.”_

_“Then perhaps one of us will come with you to make sure it is properly explained,” Francis said and Mary felt her heart tighten. She had only just gotten back. She did not wish to be parted from him, from her children again. Not yet._

_“Perhaps,” the cardinal said slowly, and he took a deep breath. “Well, I shall pray on this I know. And I urge you to do so as well.” And he left them._

_The moment the door clicked shut, she was in Francis’ arms, holding him as tightly as she could, her face pressed into his neck. It was the smell of him that made her really and truly feel as though she may have returned. How she loved the smell of him, the heat of him pressed against her. He pulled away only far enough to kiss her, his tongue tracing her lips and she sighed, melting into him. Everything about her felt warm, felt alive, and she felt so perfectly happy in that moment._

_When they broke the kiss they stood there in one another’s arms, foreheads resting against one another. “How I’ve missed you,” he whispered. “You are my light.”_

_“I can’t bear that one of us has to go to Rome,” she said. “I only just got back.”_

_Francis smiled wryly. “You know, when I said that we’d defy my father and Rome if we had to, I never thought it would be quite like this.”_

_That made her smile, though like his it was wry. “Nor I,” she admitted. She reached up and stroked his cheek._

_“What must I know of John Knox?” he asked her._

_Mary bit back a groan. “Let’s talk of him later. I want to see James and Anne.”_

* * *

 

“Mary, hello,” said Belin. She turned in her chair and shook his hand before the makeup artist began brushing powder across her face again. “Thanks for coming in on short notice.”

“Not a problem,” she said smoothly. She’d learned she was doing this at three in the morning when Catherine had called her and said she needed someone to spin the bill on television that morning. “Thanks for thinking of me.”

“The First Lady said you’d be perfect to come on the show,” he beamed at her. “Now, I’m going to be giving you a few easy questions about the bill—nothing I’m sure you can’t handle. What brought the First Lady to call on congress to focus on this piece of legislation, how did she find the cosponsors, et cetera, et cetera.”

“Absolutely,” Mary smiled.

“We may have some congressional staffers join you. We may also save them for after your interview to keep the separation of powers ostensible,” he winked.

Almost as soon as he said it, his producer walked into the room. “Jules, a word.”

“Just a moment,” Belin said and disappeared again.

“You’re all set,” said the makeup artist.

“Thanks so much.”

Mary looked at herself in the mirror. Her hair was sleek and shiny, and there were no signs of the dark circles under her eyes that were remnant of her illness and of being awakened at three in the morning and told she needed to get up and go to a television studio for a morning show interview. She looked young, hearty, collected, professional…and when she dropped her shoulders down and lengthened her neck, positively regal.

She heard footsteps behind her and glanced in the mirror to see Francis coming through the door. He smiled at her and sat down in a chair, looking quite as tired as she was sure she had looked when she’d arrived.

“They want to keep the powers separate in the interviews, the trouble of course being that I’m walking an optical line they can’t quite figure out,” he sighed. “I’m my mother’s son and that’s what the American people will see immediately when I’m on the screen, so I am apparently going to be sharing your screen time.”

“Loyola’s not a cosponsor,” Mary said at once.

“No, but he’s already come out in favor of it and is calling on his fellow senators to put themselves on the right side of history,” Francis sighed. “I won’t step on your toes. I can’t speak to the questions quite as much as you. It’s a dumb choice, in all honesty.”

“Television,” Mary snorted.

The makeup artist was bending down to begin powdering Francis’ face and he closed his eyes.

“You look like you haven’t slept,” Mary said. Maybe it was because she’d had too many dreams of exhausted Francis. Maybe it was because she’d had too many dreams of dying Francis. But she didn’t like the dark circles under his eyes.

“I haven’t,” he said. “It’s going to be a long day, too,” he said. “But that’s why god made coffee.” He gave her a cheerful smile that didn’t reach his tired eyes.

“Well, best have some of that now, or else your exhaustion will make it look like you’re bored,” Mary said softly.

“Yes ma’am.”

The lights of the television studio were blindingly bright, once they were back in their seats, and Mary felt overheated very quickly. No wonder they had put so much powder on her face—it was to keep her from visibly sweating on television. She wished she wasn’t wearing a blazer, but now was a time for serious professionalism, however unpleasant that might be as they put an earphone into her ear and pinned a microphone to her lapel. She glanced at Francis, who smiled up at the technician who was getting him set up. He looked more awake now—the coffee he had drunk had kicked in, and Belin was sitting down behind the desk, straightening prop papers.

“Ignore the cameras,” the producer told them both. “Don’t talk too quickly, don’t talk too slowly. Dead air is no one’s friend.”

“And don’t forget to smile,” Belin said to Mary with a wink. Mary blinked at him and felt her lips purse and didn’t say a word.

“Thirty seconds,” called a cameraman, and the technicians began to clear the stage.

“You’ll do great,” Belin said to Mary once again and she felt frustration flare. He wasn’t saying anything to Francis. Francis had been on television plenty during the campaign, but it wasn’t as though Mary was a stranger to cameras herself. Her mother had been in office now for nearly three terms. She could handle herself just fine.

“Five, four, three,” the camera man made two gestures and Belin began to speak.

“Yesterday morning, Catherine de Medici addressed Congress and submitted a bill with two cosponsors for legislation. The bill in question would revisit sexual assault and rape laws that exist nationwide. Ms. De Medici claims that it is time that they be modernized and standardized into a single federal law. Here with us today I have Francis Valois, as well as Mary Stuart, Deputy Chief of Staff to Ms. De Medici. Thanks for coming in.”

“Of course,” Francis said easily.

“A pleasure,” Mary said.

“Mary, how long has the First Lady’s office been planning to submit this bill for congressional procedures?”

“We’ve been working on it now for several months, though I would say we’ve really been kicking it into gear for the last month and a half,” Mary said. “The First Lady had hopes that congress would take the initiative in updating these laws, given the current climate in Hollywood, on university campuses, in ecclesiastical and religious settings, and in the political arena. But when more and more time passed without action, she decided it was time to take action.” Mary’s heart was thudding with adrenaline. She’d given interviews before, had spoken with reporters before, and maybe was because of the lights, or the fact of the work they’d put in on this bill, but she felt as she had done in the old dreams, the dreams that were gone because Francis still lived, when she rode to save Catherine and the French court with a sword in her hand.

“Some people are questioning the constitutionality of this action, saying that the First Lady is vastly overstepping her role in order to submit this bill to Congress. Is this a concern for Ms. De Medici’s office?”

“We have lobbyists who submit bills to congresspeople and senators all the time, both at the state and federal levels,” Mary replied firmly. “Sometimes these same legislators will submit the bills for votes without even reading them through. How is it different when it comes to the First Lady? If it’s a matter of her facing criticism, our team has learned over the course of the past year that if she does nothing—people criticize. If she does something—other people criticize. Ms. De Medici is determined that if she’s going to get criticism either way, she may at least garner it by trying to help the millions of Americans who are dealing with laws that offer them far less protection from those who have harmed them than people would like to think.” The lights were so bright, and Mary was getting hot quickly, but she was proud of herself. The words coming out of her mouth were collected, calm.

“Was the First Lady concerned with whether or not Congress would take up her standard?”

Mary paused. Everyone knew that the Congress and the White House spoke about laws all the time, that the President would frequently help the party garner votes where he could. But if there was already controversy about the bill, that might only cause more trouble if she said it.

“I think anyone who questions whether or not she was concerned doesn’t know my mother very well,” Francis said lightly next to Mary and she felt a rush of relief. “She’s got a good read on people—it has always made her the height of effectiveness in whatever cause she’s pursuing. This is important work that Congress needs to be undertaking. I do not doubt that she knew they’d recognize that too when she came before Congress.”

“And of course, if Congress didn’t, she was fairly comfortable knowing that the American people would hear her voice and take up the battlecry,” Mary said, “As of this morning, there were over eight point five million tweets in the #yesthisbill hashtag and that number will only go up. She’s getting very vocal support from women and men across the country—some in office, but many average Americans who want action to be taken. So she’s taking it.”

“The President’s statement on the bill has been a little bit…unenthusiastic. Is there anything to read into that?” Belin asked, with a simper to his tone that Mary did not like.

“The president supports the bill.” Mary was impressed with the control in her voice.

“But the phrasing in the White House press release was a little strained,” he pressed on.

“You’ll have to ask the White House press office about the specific language. As far as I’m aware, the statement was always going to be brief, since the measure is coming out of the First Lady’s office. We’re sure the President will lend his voice to the conversation as needed.”

“So there’s nothing to be read into it?”

“You’ve asked that question now three times, and Mary has answered it twice,” Francis pointed out. “If you’re not going to listen to her reply, here’s mine. My parents communicate very honestly with one another, and their disagreements tend not to remain private for long. If the President didn’t support the measure, we’d likely have heard about it before my mother even addressed Congress.”

Later, when they were off camera and no longer miced, Francis asked, “Was that ok?” They were back in the dressing room, both of them rubbing moist towels on their faces to get the stage makeup off.

“God they caked this on.”

“Yeah,” Francis half-laughed. The dark circles were back under his eyes. “But was—”

“It was fine,” Mary said. “You were right—it was weird they had us both on there together. But I was glad you were there. There were some answers you can give that I can’t. Although…” she looked down at her phone. She had ninety text messages, and had already gained three hundred followers on twitter. That was terrifying. “Although I can never tell how ok it is for you to refer to her as your mother. I know she is. But she’s also the First Lady.”

“If it’s any consolation, I never have any idea either,” Francis said. “It’s even harder with dad. Sometimes the way I know things is _because_ he’s my dad, but the second I call him that instead of the President, I sound like Draco Malfoy.”

“Your father will hear of this?”

Francis gave a wry smile. He ducked his eyes for a moment. “You headed to the office? I can give you a ride.”

“Sure,” she said, glad to be on her way out of the studio.

When they were seated in Francis’ car with his agent, she asked bluntly, “Is there anything to be read in your dad’s statement, though?”

Francis sighed. “Undoubtedly,” he said. “He’s probably hanging back to see if she gets more bipartisan support than his budget bill. If she does, and faster, he’ll get bitter quickly. If not, then he’ll get to be the savior calling on Congress to get with the will of the American people. He’s nothing if not ego.”

Mary grimaced. “That’s what I thought,” she sighed. “He fired Eduard Narcisse yesterday because we didn’t use the draft he came up with.”

Francis snorted. “Good. He’s a dick.”

“He really is.”

“Father and son,” Francis said darkly. He made a face. And Mary knew without him saying anything what it meant. Perhaps it was because she’d known Francis for so long, or perhaps because she knew him in her dreams—she couldn’t truly be sure.

But she said, “You’re not like your father, you know. Not the way that Eduard is like Stephane.”

Francis looked at her and his eyes seemed to glow. “I know,” he said. “But it’s nice of you to say.”

Mary’s phone began to ring in her hand—a private number. “Mary,” she said, picking up.

“Well done,” Catherine said into her ear. “Are you on your way into the office?”

“Francis is giving me a ride. No idea what traffic will do, but on the way.”

“Good. Pass the phone to him for a moment.”

She did.

“Mother,” Francis said by way of greeting, and then went quiet while Catherine spoke to him. He gave a half-smile and said, “It was no trouble. Hope I didn’t cause more harm than good.” She spoke more, then he said, “Yup. Talk soon,” and passed the phone back to Mary.

“Press has been decent so far from the reasonable sources, but I’d like to keep you monitoring them over the course of the day. And keep an eye on Henry’s team as well. They’re being quiet and I want to know why.”

“Yes ma’am. Is that all?”

“Remember what I told you in Iowa.” And Catherine hung up as Mary’s hand tightened on her phone.

“She’s got a way to her,” Mary muttered as she took the phone away from her ear.

“Always has, always will,” Francis agreed. There was something odd in his voice and Mary looked up at him. He looked so very tired when they locked eyes, but there was something else there. A guardedness she wasn’t used to.

Or rather—a guardedness she was all too used to.

“What is it?” she asked him.

“Just tired,” he lied.

“That’s not it,” she said. “Tell me.”

He didn’t say anything and she knew his face well enough to know that he was weighing what was on his mind. _I’m not his wife or his queen,_ she thought, _he doesn’t have to try to protect me from his crimes._

_But this isn’t that. He doesn’t have reason to tell me anything. We’re just friends._

And the weight of that seemed to really hit her for the first time as she watched him. _Just friends._ She liked having him at her side, working together, making sure the other didn’t stumble. She liked it, missed it. There was something to that that they hadn’t had before because they’d just been _kids_ in college. Now they were both more than just a boy and just a girl. And she wanted him to tell her.

“My father’s weak in Congress right now because of the budget bill. And I think part of that’s my fault--no. No I know part of that’s my fault. I want him to be weak in Congress. It’s…” he took a deep breath, “It’s good for my own political goals if he is.”

“So you’re undermining him.”

“Yes.”

“Through Loyola?”

Francis shook his head. “It’s more…complicated than that. I do actually agree with Loyola’s politics, and I do think we’re going to make a run for this infrastructure bill next year. But that’s exactly the point—dad doesn’t want the bill. I do. Loyola does. And the more work we put into it, the more that it’ll become obvious that even his own son isn’t on board with his agenda. It’s like if you used your position in Catherine’s office to just…subtly devalue your mother’s work in Maryland.”

Mary nodded. She understood. She completely understood. Nothing explicit, nothing blatant enough for the world to see what Francis was doing. But conscious all the same, and enough to eat at him.

“Does your mother know?”

“Have you ever known anyone to keep a secret from Catherine de Medici?”

“She’s got a way to her,” Mary said again.

“Yeah,” Francis replied. “Yeah.” He shook himself. “So it’s nice to hear you say I’m not my dad. It makes it feel like…like this is all justified somehow. If you think well of me all the same.”

“It’s not patricide or anything,” Mary said through gritted teeth, watching him closely. Part of her wanted his eyes to flicker at the words, to see him recognize the truth of her dreams, to see him share the knowledge. But when he looked at her she knew he didn’t. “And there’s plenty to be frustrated with in him. Especially…” She took a deep breath, and thought of something her mother had always told her. “They’re the present. We’re the future. Sometimes the present doesn’t know how to protect the future.” She thought of Francis in her dreams, and his lies, and the blackmail, and the men dressed as guards breaking into their rooms. Her hands tightened on her phone, and it began to rain outside.

He was looking at her again, the same way he had in her dreams, the last time she saw him before he rode from the castle, the last time she saw him before she was raped.

* * *

 

It wasn’t until she was safely in the office that she let herself look at the text messages in the Marylanders chain.

_Greer: Lookin’ good Miss Mary._

_Kenna: Honestly you and Francis look like such a #powercouple_

_Lola: Leave her be._

Kenna had uploaded a picture then, and Mary couldn’t even disagree with her. They both looked so polished. And she noticed even though she wished she didn’t that Francis was angling his body towards her in a way that looked…not quite intimate, but familiar. Friendly. Which made sense. Because they were friends.

_Kenna: Tell me I’m lying._

_Kenna: Go on. I dare you._

_Greer: Kenna—you realize that the more you push them at each other, the less likely it is that anything will happen, right?_

_Kenna: I can see what this is with my own two eyes. I don’t need any validation from them._

_Lola: Mary you’re doing such a good job._

_Lola: I really think you should run for something one day. I think it’s in your blood or something._

_Greer: yes yes yes. I’ll move to whatever state I need to just to vote for you._

_Lola: Don’t be silly—she’ll run in Maryland and stay in DC. She doesn’t have to go far at all._

_Greer: Phew. Conveniently close._

_Kenna: Aaaaand of course they show Elizabeth’s tweet right underneath while Mary’s talking._

_Lola: What?_

_Lola: I’m watching a livestream. Is it different on television?_

_Kenna: It was in the tickertape at the bottom. The one from yesterday that got like 50,000 retweets._

_Lola: Oh. I wasn’t paying attention to the ticker tape._

_Greer: Come on Lola—the ticker tape is important._

_Lola: Forgive me for paying attention to two of the most important people in the world to me._

_Lola: What was that question?_

_Lola: Is he really asking again?_

_Lola: A third time?_

_Lola: That’s infuriating._

_Lola: Even if the President were frustrated, what was she going to say to that? He’s trying to create drama there._

_Lola: The media makes me crazy sometimes._

_Greer: If it’s any consolation, to those of us who do not work in your industry, you drive us crazy too._

_Kenna: You’re probably in the only industry that doesn’t drive anyone crazy, Greer._

_Lola: I don’t know—at when drunken shouts in the street wake Jean up, I get pretty mad at Greer’s industry._

The chain went on, and Mary scrolled through all of it at her desk and was about to turn to her computer and begin monitoring media coverage per Catherine’s request when her phone buzzed with a tweet.

_@MarieforMaryland: couldn’t be prouder of my wonderful daughter @themorethemaryr representing the needs of survivors across the nation on behalf of @CathDMDV #yesthisbill_

The picture her mother shared in the tweet was a good one. Mary’s face was intent, the lighting was good, and she looked exactly the sort of powerful that made Mary understand why she dreamed she was a Renaissance queen. Mary liked the tweet, retweeted it, and then put her phone on do not disturb because even she was already getting notified like mad for all the likes and retweets of her mother’s tweet since she was tagged in it.

Much much later, she checked her phone again.

_Marylanders_

_Kenna: I’m just saying—Francis retweeted your mom’s tweet—not one of the ones he was in. The one you were in._

_Lola: Because god forbid he felt weird about being there in the first place when he wasn’t affiliated with it and wanted to highlight Mary’s work._

_Kenna: There were tons of tweets about Mary. That’s why her phone’s on mute. I’m assuming her phone’s on mute because she hasn’t told me to shut up about the above yet and it’s been over an hour. Her notifications must be wild._

_Greer: This is why I’m glad I’m not in your industry. The only time I have to tweet is when we’re doing events at the bar._

_Kenna: What I’m saying is Francis could have retweeted any of the other tweets. But no. No it was the one that her mom tweeted out._

_Lola: Catherine’s team retweeted that tweet. The White House retweeted that tweet. Francis is just going with the flow._

Mary would never tell Kenna— _never_ tell Kenna—that she had a text from Francis, too.

_Francis: Just watched the segment. You did a good job. Like I knew that, but from a viewer perspective._

_Francis: Also thanks for listening earlier and not hating me for it. Means more than I can say._

* * *

 

_“You can’t wear that. Your mother will think you’re lying about feeling refreshed,” Mary said the moment she looked at him._

_“I’m not sure what I’m wearing will reflect upon my newfound reinvigoration,” he said._

_“Because your mother will take one look at you and think you are still determined that you are damned to hell.”_

_“I am still determined of that—I merely think that I might stand a chance at repentance.”_

_“You are_ not _damned to hell, Francis,” Mary said forcefully. He had lived. He had_ lived _._

_He was smiling, though, even as she glared at him._

_“I like you fighting for my soul,” he said quietly. “It makes me think I may stand a chance with you at my side.”_

_Mary rolled her eyes at him. “This is not a moment for romance. This is a moment for you to get dressed like a king so that Catherine de Medici will look at you and see no reason for concern on her birthday. Or else I will never hear the end of it.”_

_“You?” Francis looked bemused._

_“Who do you think she’ll talk to about it? Certainly not you.”_

_“I take that to mean you are back in her good graces?”_

_Mary sighed. “Getting there,” she said. Chagrin filled her, but she refused to give it voice. “In any case—you can’t wear that.” She went to his wardrobe and threw it open and gaped. “Francis…”_

_“I had them all given away,” he said. “When I returned from Reims. Or most of them, anyway. I have a few left.” He came and stood behind her, reaching an arm around her to shift some of the coats to the side. She saw the jacket he’d worn to their wedding and a lump filled her throat. He hadn’t gotten rid of it. Of course he hadn’t. But that was far too fancy to wear today._

_“The simpler wardrobe was part of your penance?” she asked him._

_“It felt wrong, given my sins, to wear the clothes of a king.” Mary leaned her head back and rested it on Francis’ shoulder. “Will this do?” he asked, pulling a deep blue jacket out._

_“For now,” she said. “For today. I’ll have more made for you.”_

_“Mary,” Francis began, but Mary cut him off._

_“On this I insist. We must always look the pair—at least at parties. If you want to wear simpler clothing from day to day, then that I cannot argue with. If you would prefer it, I shall have the others made on your behalf so you can at least tell Saint Peter when you meet him one day and are going through each of your virtues and sins that it was your wife that made you look the part of the king.”_

_That made him laugh, and he kissed her neck, one hand coming to her waist. “I’ll be sure to let him know.” His hand crept across her hip. Mary turned around to face him, and when she looked into his eyes, was fairly certain they would be late to the luncheon._


	6. Chapter 6

“I may be needed for work, mother,” Mary said as she got home, locking the door behind her, dropping her groceries on the floor, and kicking off her shoes.

“Don’t be silly. Catherine knows it’s in her interest for you to come up to Annapolis for this event. It’s good publicity for her bill.”

“Except that neither Fitzwallace nor McNally are going to vote against it in the senate, so she may actually think that it’s useless for me to take the time off if she needs me.”

“For the good of the party, then,” Marie de Guise said, and Mary could tell her mother was rolling her eyes.

“She will say that she is not beholden to the party.”

“A daughter for her mother then. Come on, it’s just a Friday night. You can bring a date if you like.”

“I don’t have anyone I’d bring,” Mary said dully. Her mind had, naturally, gone straight to Francis, except she couldn’t think she could handle Kenna if Kenna ever found out—and Kenna would find out.

“Then make your half-brother come with you. You’re always complaining about how you never see him anymore and he lives in Annapolis.”

“That’s….a good idea, actually,” Mary said.

“Turns out your mother has them every now and again. See you Friday.” Marie hung up the phone.

Mary called James next. “Only for you,” he said.

“Not for Greer?” Mary teased and James paused.

“Was that an uncomfortable pause or a ‘I can’t tell my sister that’ pause?” She heard him huff into the phone. “ _James_.”

“It was a—I’ll actually have to reschedule a weekend plan with Greer pause,” he said. “I was actually going to drive down on Friday night and spend the weekend with her.”

“James—that’s wonderful. Keep that plan, just say you’ll be later on Friday than you thought and we can drive back down to DC after my mother’s party together.”

“Are you sure? It’ll be late.” James sounded relieved.

“I’m sure. I don’t want to be in Annapolis all weekend, and I imagine she’ll try and get me to stick around unless we make the plan.”

“That sounds about right,” James said. “All right—you want to drive up and back, or want to grab a bus up and I’ll drive us back down?”

* * *

_Mary opened the letter and scanned it, her eyebrows rising as far as they possibly could on her forehead. She did not need a cipher at this point to read the heart of Francis’ words._

My dearest Mary, _the letter began, and dove into a long, heartfelt message that she was sure he meant—how he longed for her to return, how he missed her council, how the children were inconsolable in her absence, how he hoped she would return soon but also knew that she could not until her kingdom was more settled. All this, she knew to be true._

_But it was the code that interested her._

_“James,” she called, and her brother came into the room._

_“What is it?” he asked her. “Is anything amiss?”_

_“Francis…he’s gone and entered negotiations to wed his sister Margot to Navarre.”_

_James frowned. “But Navarre is—”_

_“Protestant,” Mary said. “And she’s only a girl—there’s plenty of time for the negotiation to fail, or for them to break the alliance. Francis thought that the alliance with me might be broken when I returned to court the first time and we’d been betrothed for years. But this…”_

Mother is not pleased, _Francis had written._

_She could only imagine. Catherine’s anger that Louis and his brother had been at court at all while Francis had been away, her conviction that the Bourbon cousins would try to wrest the throne away from the Valois line at some point, that Louis had indeed besieged the castle once…and now Francis was seeking to marry her youngest daughter to Henry Bourbon, the future king of Navarre? Even if it was to protect a French border from England. None of them had forgotten that Elizabeth had nearly married Louis by proxy._

_She leaned back in her seat, looking at James. He pulled up a chair and sat down across from her, brow furrowed as well. “Will the protestants suspect a trap?”_

_“After Francis’ actions just following his coronation, I suspect they will,” she said. “I couldn’t blame them, though I think him gentler and more reasonable than they will expect. The alliance would anger Rome. And Spain.”_

_Spain would be livid. Even now, Mary was sure that Francis’ sister Leeza would be writing to him angrily on the subject._

_“And Scotland?” James asked her._

_Mary grimaced. “Were it not for Knox, I think we might be able to convince them to take it as a good sign of faith between Protestants and Catholics. We might even be able to…” she groaned. “Oh, it will make England uneasy too, of course. If France is seeking to make peace with Protestants and marry a princess to Navarre, surely that means that I am angling as a Catholic queen to rule England.”_

_“Well, you are,” James said._

_Mary took a deep breath. “I am,” she agreed. She looked back at the letter._

_She wished Francis had given her warning about this—that he was at least considering it before setting down to negotiate._ I suppose this is him warning me about it, _she corrected himself. Her husband had promised never to withhold the truth from her again._

_She looked at James. “I need Knox gone,” she said, “I need him weakened, I need him silenced—I cannot make peace between my people while he sews mistrust.” She had been saying it for months now. But suddenly, a new thought occurred to her. “And I wonder…” James cocked his head and waited for her to continue. “I wonder if this might just help me do it.”_

_“Oh?”_

_“He says he doesn’t trust me so far as he can spit. Well, if he will not take my words as more than hot air, perhaps he’ll take my husband’s deeds as something.”_

_“He’ll think that this is some French trap—especially after—”_

_“Is he not a man of reason? Perhaps he should investigate the truth of it on his own.”_

_James leaned forward, watching her intently as he said, “You intend to lure him to French court.”_

_“He thinks me a snake and a woman. Fine. Let him deal with a man. I want him gone from here. I cannot lay roots so long as he is present. Let Francis be the knife I use to cut him out of Scotland for good.”_

* * *

The next week rolled by quickly. Twitter was doing what twitter did best—exploding—and Mary was on TV twice more before the week was done. Catherine was misquoted in the New York Times of all papers and had to go on a talk show to try and clear the air. Not, of course, that that worked particularly effectively.

“I’m glad we don’t do this full time,” Lola muttered as she scrolled through yet another Twitter hashtag full of melodrama about how Catherine would probably want all men castrated if she didn’t understand that biology was _biology_ weren’t the Valois’ supposed to be about _education_ how could she not understand that. “Honestly, I don’t think my heart could take it if I had to check Twitter every day for as long as we’re in the administration.”

There was another party that Thursday night, before Mary was heading up to Annapolis, and Mary found herself at the center of a whole throng of people, all of them wanting to talk to her about the progress of the bill. She didn’t have time to worry about Kenna, who she saw out of the corner of her eye standing not too far from the President, or even to talk to Francis, who smiled at her more than once from across the room because somehow she had come out of this as the person to talk about the project if you couldn’t catch Catherine’s ear. And Catherine’s ear was the only one more full than Mary’s at the party. Even the President didn’t seem to be quite in the middle of everyone’s political machinations as he usually was—something that would undoubtedly grate him.

It was a relief, plain and simple, to get on a bus in the middle of the afternoon to head out to Annapolis, with nothing but her purse and a garment bag with the dress she’d wear that night—a new one patterned black and gold that she’d bought with Greer after work on Tuesday. She plugged in her headphones and let herself drift into a lazy nap on the bus.

* * *

_“And the Pope?”_

_“He thinks I sign it at the risk of my eternal soul and said as much in no uncertain terms.”_

_“Well, pity that you think that your soul is already damned.”_

_“That’s what I thought as well, though I didn’t tell him that of course. It did rather weaken the impact of his words, and I didn’t wish to exacerbate the situation more.”_

* * *

 

“Well don’t you look dapper,” Mary said as she came downstairs to find James standing there in a suit that fit him perfectly.

“I try,” he said, “It’s not a frequent occurrence that I get to wear civvies to a thing like this. And of course I get to show up at Greer’s later wearing it,” he winked.

“I like you in that dress, I’ll like it better crumpled at the foot of my bed?” Mary teased.

“You said it—I didn’t.”

“Things are going well, then?” Mary had done her best to keep her nose out of it. Greer was private and James was cautious. _And I’ve been confused about Francis._ She’d be lying to herself if she didn’t pretend that was what was filling her thoughts when she wasn’t working.

“Yeah,” he said and he gave her a small smile. “I’m meeting Rosie this weekend. Greer’s taking tomorrow off work so we can spend the day with her.”

“Oh, that’s wonderful,” Mary smiled at her brother. “Rosie’s so sweet. You’ll love her.”

“If she’s anything like Greer, I believe that,” he replied earnestly. James paused. “She never talks about her father. And when I asked her once, she said that he was not part of Rosie’s life…”

“Greer is straightforward,” Mary said. It was one thing that could be said of all of her friends. All of them were so very straightforward.

“I know—but sometimes people are less straightforward about their personal lives than they are about other aspects.”

“Has she talked to you about Aloysius? And Leith?”

“Yes,” James said.

He looked relieved as Mary said, “Then I promise you—you’ve heard the more tricky parts of her past than Martin.”

James offered Mary his arm and the two of them went together into the parlor where guests were already starting to filter in.

“Mary!” her mother called, waving her over. “Mary, I want you to meet Admiral Jenkins.”

As far as evenings went, it wasn’t as painful as Mary had feared. Her mother kept her close at all times, which mostly meant they had the same conversation over again ten or twelve times—A good two thirds of which included the implication that Mary was old enough to run for office and should consider it. “Between your mother and Catherine de Medici, I suspect you’ve got a keen political mind,” said one old man, patting her on the shoulder.

“I rather thought I had one before they noticed,” Mary said.

“She’s got fight in her,” Marie de Guise said, patting Mary’s shoulder. “Like mother, like daughter.”

“I’m not one for political dynasties,” said the old man’s companion, a shorter old man with hair growing out of his ears. “But you—I think you might prove me wrong.”

“I know it’s too late for the midterms,” Marie said quietly to Mary later, when they were getting some hors d’oeuvres. James was chatting away with some navy men who had been invited to the party as well. “But in the general in two years…”

“If Hutchinson doesn’t run again,” Mary said.

“Or even if he does. If there’s one thing that this bill of Catherine’s is making clear—it’s that there are too many men in congress dragging their feet. We aren’t going to get women in without an upset. You’re young, sharp as a tack…you might give him a run for his money in a primary.”

“If I’m not still working for Catherine,” Mary pointed out.

“Of course, of course,” Marie said, brushing hair out of Mary’s face. “There’s time for all that. Just remember—your cousin Elizabeth’s already in state legislature too.”

“Why does that matter?” Mary sighed. She didn’t want to think about Elizabeth. She never did. Maybe things would have been different if she hadn’t dreamed of Elizabeth murdering Lola and beheading Mary. She knew her cousin didn’t have anything to do with that—not really. And yet everyone always threw the two of them together in a way that made Mary’s skin crawl.

“She’s your age and she’s doing it well. Although you seem to have started going her route at last and have stopped looking for a man.”

“ _Mother_ ,” Mary said sharply.

“Now that’s not to say you shouldn’t. God knows I loved your father. But at the expense of living your life…that happens too much. And you seem to be really shining lately. Although don’t get me wrong, I’d love to see you with someone who loves you while Elizabeth remains on her own—just to show her that _you_ can have it all, my darling.”

Mary gritted her teeth as she said, “This is all wildly—” but her mother cut her off.

“I know. I know. I’m caving to my inner misogyny or whatever it is you think. But if I am going to, I’d rather do it in your favor.” She patted Mary on the cheek. “I just want the world for you, Mary. And I think you’re capable of claiming it.”

“If you can think of a way to claim it without saying all this about Elizabeth, I’d be grateful,” Mary said. “Think what you will about her father, or about her politics—this is low, even for you, mother. _Especially_ given _why_ you have me here in the first place, which I can only assume has to do with how much I’ve been on television lately for an explicitly feminist legislation.”

Marie made a face, and Mary hardened her gaze. “I don’t suppose it could be because you’re my daughter and I love you.”

“That’s never been how you operate,” Mary pointed out. “You can’t go praising my keen political mind and then expect me not to use it.”

Mary turned on her heel and marched towards James, who smiled at her.

“My half-sister, Mary,” he said, introducing her to the men he was speaking with. Mary smiled and listened halfway to their conversation. She didn’t really follow it—she’d come too late to it, and just as she was starting to maybe feel situated (something about a changed training program), her phone began exploding with text messages in the little purse she was carrying.

Mary pulled the phone from her bag, expecting it to be Catherine—who would absolutely text her regardless of where she was and what she was doing if there was something she wanted Mary to be doing—and froze when she saw the string came from Lola.

“Excuse me,” she said to the navy men, who nodded as she slipped away to a hallway.

_Lola: Stephane basically told Francis about us. I don’t know why he would do it. They were at a fundraiser tonight and now Francis is freaking out about it._

_Lola: I don’t know what to do._

_Lola: Stephane isn’t replying either. I don’t know why he’s doing this._

_Lola: Francis is angry. He hates being lied to._

_Lola: I know you’re busy, but I wanted to warn you. I’m trying to work out what Francis knows and what he doesn’t, but he’s too busy with the “I don’t want him near my son” part of things right now._

_Mary: Are you all right?_

_Lola: I hate this. This is exactly what I didn’t want, and Stephane just threw it into Francis’ face despite what I asked him._

_Lola: And please don’t say I told you so or anything about him. I can’t believe he’d do this and I need to know why._

_Lola: I’m trying not to cry. Greer’s working tonight and Kenna’s not replying so she’s probably with H. And I just have Francis texting angrily and he’s going to come by later to talk in person and I’m so tired of all this._

_Mary: At least the truth is out?_

_Lola: I suppose._

_Mary: We’ll get through it—I promise. I’ll help you._

Her phone buzzed and she saw Francis’ name flash across the top of the screen.

She clicked into the window.

_Francis: You knew about Lola and Narcisse and you didn’t tell me._

It wasn’t a question. She could feel the anger in the words. _He always was hugely defensive of his children._

_No. Those aren’t his children. Those are dreams._

But he was always hugely defensive of Jean. It was part of what made him a good father.

Mary didn’t know what to say. And, since she had read receipts turned off, she had the luxury of being able to wait to reply. She didn’t know if Francis knew she was at a party tonight. She found it didn’t matter. If he was going to leap down her throat via text message, she could make him wait until she was able to actually talk to him.

“Everything all right?” James asked. In that moment she’d never been gladder to see her brother. She leaned her forehead against his shoulder for a moment and his hand came to rest between her shoulders, rubbing her back. “What’s going on?”

“Let’s get on the road,” Mary said. “I don’t think I can be here anymore.”

They slipped out, climbing into James’ car and driving off without saying goodbye to the party. Mary’s mother would likely be angry she’d left before midnight, but Mary found that she did not care. She wanted to be back in DC, to help Lola, or to calm Francis down, or something—anything.

When they were safely on the highway, James asked again, “What’s going on?”

“Do you ever just know…a lot of secrets. And you hope that no one will find out, and that no one will find out that you know. Except that everything comes out?”

“No,” James said. “But I can empathize with the situation. I have a lot of friends that hate each other, and that usually leads to a lot of bullshit.”

Mary’s lips moved to smile in a way she did not feel. “Lola’s been secretly dating this guy. And Francis didn’t know. And I found out, and told Lola I wouldn’t tell him, but also that I wouldn’t lie to him if he asked what I knew. Except that the guy just told Francis that he’s seeing Lola, and that I know, and Francis is…”

“He’s mad at you for not telling him.”

“I can only assume. He texted me earlier tonight—after Lola had told me what was going on. And I just…”

“What did he say?”

Mary read the text. “That’s it. No anything else. Just a statement of fact. And I know he’s angry because Lola says he is.”

“And he’s angry with you for not saying anything?”

“I guess,” she said. “I haven’t replied yet.”

Lola hadn’t texted her more, nor had Francis.

She opened Lola’s text window first.

_Mary: On my way back to DC. Want me to come by?_

Then she switched to Francis.

_Mary: I did. I told Lola I wouldn’t lie to you, but also would let her tell you when she was ready._

Lola replied first.

_Lola: No. No it’s fine. Francis is not happy and I think he’s also angry with you because Stephane told him you knew._

_Mary: Don’t worry—I’m aware. He’s texted me._

_Lola: Oh no :(_ _Anything I can do?_

_Mary: I can handle Francis. I can try and calm him down so he’s reasonable for you if you like._

_Lola: I told him I wasn’t going to respond to him tonight, and that he should not come by. I’m not going to have him yelling in front of Jean. He seems to have responded well to that._

_Mary: Yeah—hit him with some mature parenting. He usually listens to that._

_Mary: Let him yell at me then. I can handle a fight, after the evening I’ve had with my mother._

_Lola: I won’t ask you to do anything. But I thank you for offering._

Her phone kept buzzing as she texted Lola and she could see Francis replying.

_Francis: So omission isn’t a lie these days?_

_Francis: I’m honestly so damn disappointed I don’t know what to say._

_Francis: You know what Narcisse is._

_Mary: I’m not having this conversation over text message. I’m on my way back from Annapolis right now._

Francis didn’t reply right away, and when she looked up from her phone again, she was trembling, her heart pumping as if she’d been running.

“Not better?” James asked.

“He’s angry. Like really angry. And it takes a lot to get him angry to begin with.”

“Do I need to kick his ass?”

“What? No. God no. I can kick his ass,” Mary said. “If he needs it. Which he may. I don’t know. I don’t know why Lola’s dating this guy to begin with, so I also understand his anger.”

_Francis: You and Lola both. So I’m just supposed to sit here and stew, am I? Because that’ll make it better._

_Mary: I am in a car with my brother right now. You can come by when I get home or I can call you when he’s dropped me off._

She sighed and leaned her head back and made a tired noise. “Why does everything always have to be so complicated, always and forever? Can’t things ever be easy?”

“No,” James said. “That’s why I try to be careful and why I’m always telling you to be careful. But you dive into things head first. Which isn’t to say they wouldn’t be complicated anyway, but it means that it’s definitely gonna burn a bit in the resolution.”

“I am cautious sometimes,” Mary said slowly. Her phone buzzed in her hand but she didn’t look at it just yet.

“Name one time you were cautious,” James teased.

“I’m cautious with Francis,” Mary said. It was true. “I…it’s complicated. And my head and heart are telling me things and I just…I’m being cautious. Because I don’t want it to explode again.”

“You like him?” James asked.

“I’m honestly not sure I ever stopped,” Mary sighed. “It’s…complicated. I’ve had these dreams for a while, and he figures in them. And it’s hard to say that they don’t matter because sometimes I wake up and I just…mourn him. Which makes it hard to say I stopped caring.”

James didn’t say anything. Mary was glad of that. She’d never told anyone about her dreams before. It seemed fitting that James would be the first.

“Anyway,” she muttered, and looked at her phone.

_Francis: I’ll come over. Text me when you’re close._

“Anyway, sometimes you have to throw caution to the wind.”

“What, are you about to…I don’t know…?” James asked, confused.

Mary took a deep breath. “I’m going to have to put on the part of me that dreams I’m his wife and tell him to get his head out of his ass. Because no matter how upset and hurt he is, he needs to think twice before lashing out at Lola.”

* * *

 

Francis arrived five minutes after Mary got home. When she opened the door to her apartment, the dark anger on his face turned to surprise when he saw her.

“Were you out tonight?” he asked, taking in the fancy dress she wore, the jewelry, her hair.

“My mother was hosting a thing and she wanted me there,” Mary said, stepping aside so she could pass him. “I’ll try not to keep him up too late,” she said dryly to the agent, who gave her a half- smile. The man probably deserved a stiff drink if he’d been babysitting Francis all evening. She closed the door and turned to look at Francis.

Francis was staring at her and she could tell he was trying to shake the surprise of her dress from his head and meeting that with extreme difficulty. “Narcisse,” Mary said and his eyes snapped to hers, and there was the darkness again. “Lola said he just told you.”

“Yes,” Francis said. “He had fun with it though, really drew it out to make me feel like a complete fool. Lola and you both lying to me. What is she _thinking_ dating that guy?”

“I have no idea,” Mary said. “I don’t understand it either.”

And Francis practically exploded at her. “You don’t understand, but you haven’t been trying to dissuade her from it? From thinking that that man should be allowed anywhere near my son?”

“In what world do you think I’m not trying to dissuade her?” Mary demanded. “I can’t force her to do anything.”

“No, you can’t,” Francis agreed.

“And nor can you,” Mary snapped before he could continue. “Lola is her own person. You don’t own her just because she had your kid.”

Francis made an angry noise. “I know I don’t own her,” he snapped. “Don’t accuse me of that sort of medieval bullshit.”

“Well, then stop behaving like it.”

“I don’t want this man near my son,” Francis yelled. “I don’t think he’s a good person. I actively think he’ll hurt Lola.”

“I know that,” Mary said. “And I don’t think your shouting at her will help anything.”

“So you’d rather I did nothing then? Just pretend I didn’t know? Lie to her about it like she lied to me? Like you lied to me?”

Mary flared. “I did not lie to you. That was the one thing I told Lola I wouldn’t do.”

“You didn’t tell me, though. I have been nothing but honest with you from the start of this. I’ve trusted you with things I don’t even tell my therapist.”

“Was there some secret your best friend was asking you to keep from me, Francis? Like explicitly saying _do not tell Mary. I want to do it_?”

“No, but—”

“No. Stop it. I did not lie to you, and don’t pretend that you’re not asking the impossible of me right now. We’re friends, Francis, no matter what we have been. But I’m friends with Lola too. I care about you. I care about her. There was no way to be in the middle of this and you’re asking me to have chosen you over her.”

Francis paused in his pacing to stare at her. He didn’t say a word, and his gaze was blazing as he locked eyes with her. Mary’s stomach twisted, but not in fear. In her dreams there was always passion between them, always something burning, and burning, like the way he was looking at her just now.

Everything she’d been planning on saying in the car fell from her mind as she stared at him. She was quivering almost with the intensity of the gaze, could feel heat rising in her, could feel something that pulled her towards him.

“It kills me,” he said quietly. “That you’re right, and that I wish you’d chosen me anyway.”

Mary swallowed. “I—” she began but stopped short. She’d told James about the dreams in the car on the way back from Annapolis. But that was different from telling Francis.

And yet here he was, upset that she hadn’t told him the truth of it, that she’d withheld something. _He’s not expecting this, though._

 _I am careful with Francis,_ she had told James.

“I know,” she said. She didn’t expand. She didn’t know how to.

“You know,” Francis said and he took a step closer to her. “Am I supposed to take comfort in that? That at least you know I wish you’d choose me? That I have to stand here and watch forever as you pick your other friends over me? When you picked my fucking cousin over me?”

“Don’t bring him into this,” Mary interrupted as Francis said, “That I’m always going to be—” he cut himself off and looked out of the window.

“This was supposed to make it hurt less,” he muttered. “This was supposed to be a way to protect my heart. And now I’m confused and hurt and I know that Lola and I will work it out—we always do when there’s conflict. But you…”

“Don’t say it,” Mary said, sensing it before the words were out of his mouth. “Don’t even think it.”

“This was a bad idea,” Francis said as he looked at her.

“One fight that we’ll get through doesn’t make us a bad idea, Francis,” she insisted angrily. She hadn’t had seven years worth of dreams for _this_.

“And if it keeps on hurting? How much am I supposed to hurt, Mary? Because no one has _ever_ been able to make me hurt the way you do. No one.”

“And no one has been able to make me hurt the way you do,” she snapped back. “If that weren’t the case, maybe the past seven years would have been easier.”

Francis blinked at her, processing the words she’d just said. _Careful_ , she told herself, but already her mouth was moving faster than her head—just as fast as her racing heart. “I’ve dreamed of you, Francis. For years. And these dreams, they aren’t—they’re so real, it’s like I’m there, like I’ve lived it. And there are days when I woke up and felt fucking _bereft_ of you. And you mean more than the world to me in them but they were dreams, no matter how real they felt, no matter how…” she didn’t know what else to say. She was watching his face, watching as the anguish seemed to fade into that warm glow that made her feel as though she were standing in the sun.

“You dreamed of me?” he asked slowly.

“Yes,” Mary said. “So I understand that’s not the same as me causing pain right now, but don’t pretend whatever I’ve been dreaming isn’t real to me, please. They’ve been with me for years. You’ve been…” she swallowed. “You’ve been with me for years.”

When had he gotten so close to her? She could hear the sound of his heavy breathing, could feel the heat radiating off his chest, but all of that paled in comparison to the way he was looking at her. God, she could swim in his eyes.

And then his lips were on hers, or maybe hers were on his. It didn’t truly matter.

What mattered was that there was fire in her veins that spread from the way his fingers were in her hair, from the way her hands were on his chest, from the feel of his breath in her lungs. Her hands dropped from his chest to his waist, pulling him closer and closer to her. He was so warm that she could melt into him, she was sure of that. And he seemed to be melting into her too.

They had dated a world ago, when they’d been young and stupid. Maybe that’s why the taste of his tongue against hers felt so familiar. But she wasn’t sure—couldn’t be wholly sure that that was it. She’d had too many dreams of his lips against hers, of his skin against hers, of his heart against hers to believe that it was a memory of his nineteen-year-old self that made her feel as though the world was stopping, as though she were home.

“Mary,” Francis breathed into her lips, but if he was going to say anything more, he didn’t. Instead his hands ran up and down her back, over the zipper of her dress until he settled on her hips. “Mary.”

“Francis?” she asked. Part of her wanted to kiss him forever, to tug off their clothes and fall to the ground right there, unable to make it to even the couch, much less her bed. But she didn’t know the nature of his words, didn’t know if it was a protest, or a prayer.

“Mary,” was all he answered, and he kissed her again. She let herself lose herself to it. If he wasn’t pulling away, she wasn’t pulling away.

_“Tell me when you want me to stop.”_

_“Never.”_

She hadn’t dreamed that dream in so long—not since before the new dreams had started. But that was what it felt like as she and Francis kissed their way down the hallway to her bedroom, as she unzipped her dress and let it fall to the floor leaving her in just her underwear as she helped Francis tug his shirt off.

“Are we doing this?” he asked her between kisses.

“Yes,” she said.

“Are you sure?”

She had never been surer of anything. She pressed herself against him, feeling his hands against the bare skin of her back, his chest against hers, his skin hot, his heart hammering. She pulled him down onto the bed with her, hooking a leg over his hips so that she could better grind herself against him. He was still wearing his pants, and she reached down between them to unbuckle his belt. “I’m sure,” she whispered to him, realizing she hadn’t answered. “I’m sure if you are.”

“Mary,” he moaned into her lips again. She loved the sound of her name on his tongue. She loved the way he said it now, as if he’d never said it before, and she loved it the way she heard it—fresh in her ears, as if she’d never dreamed of him dying, or chasing after her, or begging her, or praising her, or loving her.

He kissed his way down her chest, down her stomach, and she ran her hands through his hair. He needed a haircut, probably, but it was so soft, and it felt like a dream, and she sat up, pulling his face back to hers and kissing him as deeply as she’d ever kissed anyone. She reached down between them and unzipped his pants. “This ok?” she asked him.

“Yes,” he murmured, and she slid her hand down beneath the elastic of his underpants and found him, stiff, and warm beneath. She pulled his cock loose and between the two of them, kicked the pants and underpants down his legs as she stroked at his dick, running her fingers over his tip in a way that made him moan as precum dribbled out of him. His lips were at her neck now, pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses into the pulse of her neck as his own hands went to the elastic of her underpants. “And this?”

“Yes,” she whispered, and there were his fingers against her slit, taking the moisture he found there and rubbing it against her clit in a way that made her tremble, made her gasp. Was this really happening? Was it real, was it true, was he there with her, lips at her throat, cock in her hand.

He had a finger circling her entrance now, and he paused in his kisses to look up at her. His lips were chapped, his eyes were shining in the darkness and he was panting. “I don’t have a condom,” he said, “I wasn’t actually expecting this.”

“If you’re clean, you don’t need one,” Mary said. She’d been on birth control when she’d been in college and had never really gotten off it at any point.

“You’re clean?” he asked her. She nodded, and he slid two fingers into her, curling them slightly as he pumped his hand in and out, stroking her in just the right way.

How strange it was to feel him do that—not because she hadn’t dreamed it, she had—but because she remembered viscerally in that moment one snowy afternoon in college when they’d been in his overlong bed and he’d found her g-spot. How he’d grinned as he’d done it, how pleased with himself he’d been as she’d cum so hard that her whole body had flushed. And there he was, finding it again, finding it easily as if he’d never forgotten where it was after all these years.

Mary pulled herself off his hand and tugged her underpants down her legs. Then she pulled him so he was hovering over her, his cock in her hands, stroking him gently as she positioned him right at her entrance. She locked eyes with him and forgot where and when she was. Where and when she was didn’t matter. What mattered was that Francis was there, with her, in her, always always always as she slid onto his cock and he moaned, again, “Mary.”


	7. Chapter 7

_“He has Francis’ eyes!” were the first words out of Margot’s mouth, loud enough for the whole court to hear, and Mary bit back a smile as Margot bent over her newborn nephew, running a finger gently over his cheek._

_“He does,” Mary said, doing her best to balance out her delight with Margot with the fact that she was supposed to be behaving coolly towards Francis’ younger sister. “So big and blue.”_

_“What is he to be named?” Margot asked and her excitement was now more contained. They must always remember the game—so long as Knox was there. “Will you be naming him Francis?” she looked at Francis, pretending to be nervous, but Francis gave her a warm smile. Today, a father once again, perhaps he and Mary could seem benevolent to poor determined Margot._

_“No,” he said. “We had thought that at first, but quickly thought better of it.”_

_“Thought better?” Margot asked, wide-eyed, cocking her head in confusion._

_Mary flushed, and Francis’ eyes danced as they looked at one another, and neither of them said anything. He raised her hand to his lips. Mary was quite pleased with the court knowing from sweet Margot’s lips that her newborn boy was Francis’, after the rumors that had swirled about her while he’d been gone to Rome. It had taken her so very long to conceive the twins—that with less than a week home Francis’ had gotten another child in her seemed…suspicious. Some had whispered that Knox was her lover, whom she’d brought back from Scotland to trick the king into being more gentle with Protestants. Mary had been livid when she’d heard that, and the only comfort she’d taken in it was that the only person who would be angrier with the rumor was Knox himself._

_But the whole court knowing that she and Francis had decided against naming their son after him because she didn’t wish to think of her child while she and Francis were together and she was moaning his name into his neck…that would stay between them, she thought._

_“We were thinking Philippe might be a better name,” Francis said simply. “He has the look of one, doesn’t he?”_

_Margot looked down at the boy. “I…suppose so,” she said. “Oh he is so perfect!” she squealed delightedly again, kneeling down and brushing her fingers over his cheeks again. “Such a sweet, sweet baby. Are the twins already in love with him?”_

_“I’ve charged James with his defense,” Francis said. “He seems willing to try to meet the task.” Francis glanced at Mary. Of their twins, Anne was by far the bolder, but it was James who would be King of France and Scotland. Francis was sometimes nervous that he wasn’t bold enough._ “You are not the boldest king to ever live. If our son is like you, I should be quite content,” _Mary had told him. It had made Francis smile, but Mary knew it still concerned him._

_“And Anne?” Margot asked._

_“Anne loved him before he was born, but finds him disappointingly small,” Mary said, half-laughing. “I told her he would grow. I am not sure she believes me.”_

* * *

She woke to the bed shifting and a brief moment of cold before the blanket was tucked around her gently. She peeked open her eyes.

Francis was pulling his pants up his legs in a pale, pre-dawn light. “Francis?”

He turned around. “Keep sleeping,” he whispered, bending over and kissing her forehead.

“Where are you going?”

“I need to think a bit. I’m seeing Lola in a few hours and I need to wrap my head around…around everything.”

He bent down and found his undershirt, then the button up that had ended up rumpled on the floor.

She swallowed. “What are we?” she asked his back, and he turned to look at her, a strange look on his face.

“Let’s talk this week,” he said. “I…I want to, I promise. But I need to put one foot in front of the other right now—so much is happening and I can’t…I can’t process it all at once.”

Mary nodded. That she could understand, though she was trying not to take anything from the fact that he had not immediately sworn his undying love for her. Francis had always been one for grand gestures—both in her dreams and in real life. If he was taking time to consider it… _Let him. This is a lot. And he’s not nineteen anymore._

“What are you doing Monday?” she asked him. That should, she hoped, give him time to figure things out with Lola.

“I’m in Phoenix with the Senator until Wednesday. What are you doing Thursday?”

“Fundraiser for your mom,” she said. “Friday?”

“The Senator’s speaking in Michigan, so I’ll be there until late Friday night.”

“Saturday then?” A whole week.

“Saturday.” Francis nodded to her, his lips twitching in an almost smile.

He approached the bed again and bent his head down to hers and kissed her gently.

“Have a good week,” he whispered and made to leave. Mary clambered out of the bed after him, tugging her blankets around her so she could lock the door after him.

“Francis?” she asked as he gathered his coat from where he’d tossed it the night before. He looked up at her. “Text me when you get home.”

His face softened. He kissed her again, and was gone.

* * *

_How strange it was that once she couldn’t bear the sound of his breath, and now she clung to it._

_How long she sat there in his bedchamber, at his side, she did not know. She did not care._

_It was only when Lola arrived and took her by the hand, whispering, “There is someone here for you,” that she stood, straightened her skirts and said to the physician, “If his condition changes, send for me.”_

_“Of course, your majesty.”_

_The news was bad. Protestants had her mother under siege and were not listening to her half-brother James. There was no money, and what soldiers they had were dying more and more each day. Mary read the message three times, then thanked the messenger, and told him he would have her response shortly._

_She returned to Francis’ chamber, where she found Catherine sitting at Francis’ side. “Catherine,” she said quietly and the dowager queen looked up._

_“Well?”_

_“Scotland,” Mary said._

_“Can it wait?”_

_Mary shook her head and Catherine sighed. She looked back at her son, then stood. “Not in here.”_

_They went to Francis’ study and Mary handed Catherine the letter her mother had sent her. Catherine read it quickly. “You wish to send troops.”_

_“What else can I do?” she asked. “Scotland is France’s ally. What’s the good of being an ally if we can’t help our allies?”_

_“We,” Catherine said quietly, and she looked at Mary, her gaze shrewd. “Francis may be dying.”_

_“And if he lives do you think he would wish to delay in this? He would understand, he would send men.” Wouldn’t he? He had been distant to her of late, that much was true, but that didn’t mean he would abandon Scotland like this. Not Francis._

He has to live _, she thought, her heart twisting._ He has to live, at least. I cannot lose him.

Scotland cannot lose France.

_“Please, Catherine. You must see that it is true.”_

_“Scotland needs France,” she said, “You need Francis.”_

_Mary’s eyebrows shot up. “What do you mean?”_

_“I’ve watched you for months now, cavorting around with Louis Condé while my son—”_

_“I am not cavorting.”_

_“Oh is that so?”_

_“I bade Francis come back to court.”_

_“After you sent him from it.”_

_“Catherine—I did not trust Antoine, no more than you did.”_

_“And Louis is his brother, and yet you chose his company over Francis’. I know that what happened to you was hard. God only knows that I know. But Francis is your husband, your king, and_ my _son.”_

_“And I love him,” Mary heard herself say, and the shock of the words rolled over her so that she was barely aware when Catherine snorted and said,_

_“Oh please. You may have loved him, but I’d be as naïve as you to think you do now.”_

_“Why?” Mary flared, “Because he does not come to me? Because he has been ill, and saying that he has been praying for sins that will send him to hell and he would keep me from them?”_

_“Because you_ believe him _when he says that,” Catherine retorted._

 _“_ I do not believe him _,” Mary hissed. “After that night I thought that I couldn’t bear him, I could hardly stand to look at him, and now I find myself fighting for us because Francis will not. I did not expect it, nor did I think I would want it. But losing him? I refuse to.”_

_“So you did want Condé, then.”_

_Mary let out a growl in frustration. “Did you not hear a word I just said?”_

_She turned on her heel before she screamed at Catherine and returned to Francis’ bedchamber, sitting down on the bed and taking his hand. It was limp and clammy in her own. “Please, Francis,” she whispered to him. “Please live. Live through this.”_

* * *

The week dragged on slowly. Lola wasn’t at work on Monday. She called in sick and when Mary texted her, she said that she was actually sick, but that she was also relieved not to be going into work.

_Lola: It was a lot._

_Lola: But he was mostly (mostly) reasonable. Upset. But much calmer than I was expecting. I don’t know what you said to him, but it helped a lot._

Mary’s stomach lurched. She didn’t want to tell anyone about having slept with Francis, not until she and Francis actually talked. She couldn’t tell if it would frustrate him if he found out that she’d done it. Maybe if he and Lola weren’t so close, she’d risk it, but somehow it felt like tempting fate to let on that anything had changed, that everything was different. It had taken her most of Saturday morning to reconcile herself that it had happened. Their texting had been minimal.

_Francis: I want to talk in person if that’s ok. My head’s reeling a bit, and I’d rather look you in the eye._

_Francis: I won’t need a whole week to process. Schedules are really not our allies in this. But I still would rather talk in person._

But she found she didn’t know what to text him about. The bill seemed off limits, especially now that it was up for debate in committee, and her day to day, how she was feeling…how she was feeling was that she wanted to know what he was thinking. _He kissed me goodbye,_ she thought. _Surely that was enough of an indicator?_

Francis was always a decent man—he wouldn’t play games with her heart.

Of course, her subconscious was playing on her nervousness, though, sending her dreams—not of Francis—but of Louis. Louis making her laugh while Francis was in Reims, making her feel safe in a way she had not since she was raped. She dreamed of almost kissing him, of wanting to kiss him, and it was so wildly inconvenient because what she wanted—what she needed—was dreams of Francis.

She hadn’t actually spoken to Louis in years—not since he’d left her for Elizabeth, a relationship that hadn’t lasted particularly long but which had been enough to mean that Mary had little interest in meeting the distant cousin everyone compared her to…or contacting the ex-boyfriend she’d left Francis for. But every night that week when she closed her eyes, it was Louis’ face, not Francis that greeted her, or if Francis was there, he was sickly and dark-eyed and praying. _I want dreams of our children,_ Mary thought on Wednesday night as she closed her eyes. _I want to know what happened with little Margot and Knox. I want…_

But she did not get what she wanted.

* * *

 

_There were horses in the courtyard and Mary went to the window. A carriage had arrived and she saw someone descending from it—a woman, hooded. The guards let her into the castle and Mary returned to her bed, burying her face in the pillow and letting her misery have her._

_She felt small—smaller by far than she’d felt since she was a little girl. She did not feel a queen of two lands, nor a wife, nor a mother, nor, most importantly of all, herself. She felt empty inside as her stomach shrank more and more, as if it had never swollen with life to begin with._

He didn’t live long enough to breathe, _she thought and felt tears leaking from her, the memory of her fourth baby born dead. It was as though she could only feel pain now. When she wasn’t hurting, she just felt nothing at all. Where had all the joy gone? There had been such joy after Philippe had been born._

_She heard footsteps, quick ones and the door opened. Mary lifted her head and saw—_

_“Catherine?”_

_“Leave us,” Catherine commanded of the guards._

_“We have our orders.”_

_“Do you? Go speak with your Lord, you’ll find your orders have changed.” Catherine was still cloaked, but the hood was down now. Mary sat up and she watched as Catherine’s face took her in. “For god’s sake, leave us. What do you expect me to do? Whisk her out of the window and into the carriage in the courtyard that is now heavily guarded by your fellow guardsmen? I’m sure your devotion to you orders will not go unrecognized.” She closed the door in the guard’s face and crossed to the bed, sitting down next to Mary._

_“It’s all right, my dear,” Catherine said gently. “It’s all right. You’re safe. Safe now.” She wrapped her arms around Mary pulling her to her bosom as Mary had so often fantasized about being held by her own mother when she’d been young and the tears leaked out again. She hated that she was crying. She hated being weak in front of Catherine._

_“You’re safe. Elizabeth won’t take your head, don’t worry.”_

_“I wasn’t afraid of that,” Mary said, her voice thick, and Catherine petted her hair, smoothing it out as Mary had seen her smooth out Charles’. “I….” she shuddered._

_“Losing a child is a terrible thing,” Catherine said gently. “Even for queens. Even when they are born living it can be hard.” Mary leaned back and looked at Catherine, who rolled her eyes. “The body is a vessel of wonder, but it can only bear so much change in one year without driving you mad. And without the babe to comfort you, what can you have but your misery? Come back to France with me. Your children miss you and Scotland can wait.”_

_“I am held captive,” Mary said. She’d been afraid she’d drown when the storm had taken her ship. She could still feel the water closing over her head._

_“No,” Catherine said. “You’re not. Elizabeth has ordered your release.”_

_“What?” That made no sense. None at all. “Why? She thinks I’m behind the death of Gideon Blackburn.”_

_“I know,” Catherine said simply. “But if you’re a headstrong girl, she is too. And while you may have developed a tolerance for my way of…expressing urgency, I can assure you that Elizabeth has not.”_

_“Urgency?” Mary asked slowly._

_“Well, urgency might be the wrong word. Francis would send thousands of troops to England to rescue you—and he’d probably have her head while he was at it. It’s a rare day when I can assure a queen she’s_ lucky _to be dealing with me rather than my son whose reputation for justice and measure grows by the day…and who is quite enough in love with his wife that he’d send France right back to war.”_

_“He didn’t,” Mary gasped. The cost of it—especially when she was innocent of Blackburn’s death, and thus would, in time, have been freed. Surely she would have been._

_“Oh, he did,” Catherine said. “Foolish of him. But effective in this case. Come. Dress. There’s a ship waiting to bring us back to Le Havre.”_

_“No,” Mary said, and the word nearly choked her. “I must go north.”_

_Catherine raised her eyebrows. “Mary, my dear, that wasn’t part of the—”_

_“I came for Scotland, and haven’t even made it_ to _Scotland. I must see my brother.”_

_“Francis,” Catherine began, but Mary shook her head._

_“Francis will understand. He’ll hurt, but he’ll understand. You’ll make sure he—”_

_“Oh, if you’re going to Edinburgh, I am too,” Catherine sighed. “And make no mistake, I begrudge the journey. I have never had any particular desire to go to Scotland.”_

_“You don’t have to—”_

_“I swore to Francis I’d see you home safely. If that home is your home in Scotland, then I won’t have lied to my son. Now, up. Dry your eyes and let’s get you dressed. You’re leaving this castle—you must look a queen again.”_

* * *

_Mary: Are you still up for tomorrow?_

She sent the text around noon, but didn’t have a response until close to eight pm.

_Francis: Yes. I’m feeling a little under the weather, but I want to see you._

_Mary: Oh no. I’m sorry. What’s wrong?_

_Francis: Just exhaustion probably. You’re right: coffee isn’t a replacement for sleep._

_Mary: I’m sure it made a valiant attempt._

_Mary: What do you feel up for?_

_Francis: Is it too cold to just sit outside? Go to the Jefferson Memorial, or the Lincoln or something?_

_Mary: I could do either. Shall we go around eleven? Or will you want to sleep in?_

_Francis: Perfect. Let’s do the Lincoln. It’s closer. Meet at the Reflecting Pool?_

* * *

_That afternoon, the bleeding ceased, and by evening he was sitting up. He looked tired, but there was a lightness to him Mary had not seen in months as he sat there, drinking the soup that they had brought him from the kitchens._

_“Of course we are sending men to Scotland,” he said the moment that Mary asked. It was all she could do not to look at Catherine. “Three ships for now, and more if need be. France will always honor her alliances.”_

_Mary kissed his forehead, then watched as he signed an order that was carried somewhere that would get men in motion._

_“You should eat,” he told her. It was dark and she’d been at his side all day. “Go have dinner.”_

_Mary shook her head and turned to one of the servants. “Have food brought for me.”_

_“At once, your majesty.”_

_When she turned back to Francis, he was watching her. There was that same lightness in his face. His hand was still in hers, and she squeezed it._

_He looked around the room. No one was there but them and he said, “Mary—I—” He licked chapped lips. “I thought I would die, that God was punishing me.”_

_“And yet you live.”_

_“And yet I live. And all I’ve been able to think is that you were right,” he made a face, “I mean—more than you usually are.”_

_Had Francis just made a joke? Was he truly smiling? Was this a dream?_

_“If God wished me dead and in hell, surely I would have died,” he said. “But God has instead given me a second chance. Perhaps He is forgiving as you say. Perhaps He wishes for me to repent on this earth after all.”_

_Mary breathed slowly, the relief she’d felt faltering._

_“Francis,” she began, not entirely sure what would come out of her mouth next, but Francis cut her off, squeezing her hand._

_“I only meant,” he said, “that if God wished me to live, then He would have me be king—and as good a king as I can be. These past few months have been…well I don’t know what they’ve been. I haven’t been myself since my father died, and I don’t know if I can even be that self again. So much has happened.” He looked at her and there was such sincerity in his eyes. “But if God has given me this chance, then it is because God would see what I will do with it. So I must be a good king. How else can I justify my sins?”_

_“I was afraid you’d say you’d go off and become a monk,” she said. “That you would devote yourself wholly to prayer.”_

_“No,” he said. “No, I don’t think so. I don’t even…” He leaned back against the bed. “If it weren’t for what I’d done, weren’t for Narcisse, I’d have done so much so differently. Not least of which would have been making protestants safe in France, and ending the strife in my lands.” He was watching her carefully. “I am king of all of France—Catholics, and protestants, and pagans alike. I’m sure that Rome would have me do as Spain did, but I’m not sure that that would make me a good king. I swore a vow to defend France. That means all of her people, doesn’t it?”_

_“You say that God has given you a second chance and here you are defying Rome within three hours of waking up from your deathbed,” Mary laughed._

_Francis’ eyes seemed to shine as he watched her laughing—the way they so often had before everything had gone bad. He was alive, and looking at her like she was a light in the darkness. Perhaps I am, she thought. She had been a light in her own darkness, after all—why could she not also be for Francis?_

_“Mary,” he whispered, and his thumb stroked the side of her hand. “I…I understand if you need more time. I wouldn’t bring it up at all—except that you’re still here. If God has given me a second chance, is it too much to hope that you might too?”_

_Mary did not say a word. Instead, she leaned forward and kissed him._

* * *

 

Mary woke far too early for a Saturday morning, but she did not care. She could not care. Her stomach was in knots.

She got up, showered, dressed, made herself something to eat and a cup of coffee, scrolled through the news before deciding that all of this was very stupid. She grabbed her coat and decided she would go for a walk, because sitting there, waiting, was not going to help anything, especially if the longer she sat there, the more she thought about the way that Francis had kissed her…had it really been a week ago? It felt like it had been months—years, even.

Mary found herself on the Mall at ten thirty, walking around because she didn’t want to just stand there for thirty minutes.

_Mary: I’m running early, if you’re in the neighborhood._

_Francis: Nearly there._

Her stomach jumped at the words and she made her way back towards the corner, looking about. She didn’t see a sign of him, so she kept walking. Five minutes later, she turned back around.

Her phone buzzed in her hand.

_Francis: I can’t see you?_

_Mary: I kept walking. Be right there._

She saw him up ahead. He was looking at his phone, then looking around. She waved and he nodded and began walking towards him.

Except something was wrong.

His movement was slow, and he seemed almost to be drifting.

Then he collapsed.

“Francis!” she yelled and ran to him. She saw his agent running towards him as well, kneeling down and talking into his wrist.

“Dolphin just collapsed. I need an ambulance,” she heard the agent saying as Mary knelt down next to Francis.

“Francis,” she said. “Can you hear me?” His eyes were closed. “Did he hit his head?” she asked the agent. The agent pulled off the hat he was wearing and ran his hands over Francis’ head gently.

“No blood.”

But there was blood.

Blood dribbling out of Francis’ ear.

Mary’s heart was in her throat. “No,” she heard herself moan. “No, no, no.”

“Can I get a 10-20 on that ambulance?” the agent said into his wrist again.

There were tears on her face. “Francis, please wake up. Can you hear me?”

When the ambulance came, it had a police escort, and they loaded Francis into the back of it with his agent. “Put her in one of the cars,” the agent told one of the police officers, and for one wild moment, Mary thought she was under arrest. “They can only fit one of us back here,” he added.

“This way, ma’am,” someone said, steering Mary towards the car. Numbly, Mary climbed into the backseat, clutching her phone.

It buzzed in her hand. _Catherine,_ Mary thought, because surely, surely Catherine would know that Francis was on his way to the hospital, somehow she’d know that Mary was there too, but when she looked at it, it wasn’t.

_Kenna: Mary. Mary I was stupid. There’s a story about to break about me and Henry._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A comparatively short one, but I couldn't _not_ leave it on that cliffhanger.


	8. Chapter 8

Mary was sitting in the waiting room, numbly staring at the wall in front of her. It was plain blue, and there was a television making noise hanging from the ceiling in the corner, but Mary didn’t hear a word of what was happening on the screen.

She was breathing. She was alive. She was fine.

And Francis was in a room being treated by some of the best doctors in the world. He would be fine. His bleeding ear wouldn’t kill him, just as it hadn’t in her dreams. There were no protestant opportunists out to get them. He was just sick. And soon he wouldn’t be.

She heard quick footsteps, the clicking of high heels and a moment later Catherine entered the waiting room, flanked by secret service agents. “Where is he?” she asked a passing nurse.

“Down the hall to the right, ma’am,” the nurse replied and Catherine swept past her quickly. Mary just sat there, hearing a door open just at the edge of her earshot, and Catherine’s, “How is he?” before it clicked shut and she was left alone with the television again.

She looked up at it now.

Someone had gotten cell phone footage of her and the agent bent over Francis’ body. She heard her own voice—so strange from outside of her own body—calling to him, trying to get him to wake. Then the video was gone, replaced with a news anchor who was standing on the Mall where Francis had collapsed and was talking into a microphone. No one knew what had happened, what his condition was, just that he had been rushed to the hospital—

And then they transitioned to a news anchor who was outside of a hospital, saying that Catherine had just arrived, but that neither the White House nor the hospital had made any statement about his status.

Her phone buzzed in her hand.

_Marylanders_

_Greer: I just saw the news._

_Kenna: What did you see?_

_Greer: Mary—are you at the hospital? Can we do anything?_

She stared at the words on her phone.

_Mary: No updates yet. Catherine just got here._

Then her phone was ringing. It was Lola.

“I don’t know what’s happened,” she said.

“Should I come? I should, shouldn’t I?”

“Up to you,” Mary said, and as she did so, Catherine came back down the hall. “Let me call you back. Catherine just got here.” She hung up the phone and looked miserably at Catherine.

“They’re running tests,” Catherine said. “Bloodwork and such. Best case scenario, it’s an ear infection, but they’re not sure what it is.”

Mary nodded. “Is there anything I can do?” she asked her. “Is there anything you need?”

Catherine looked at her, and there was a strange look in her eyes. She didn’t reply, and looked down at her own phone, which was glowing in her hand. She placed it to her ear. “Darling,” she said, “Yes, I’m at the hospital now. They don’t know what it is yet. He’s still unconscious….I’m sure he’ll be fine. We have access to the best doctors in the world. It’s probably just an infection of some sort. I’m not worried.”   But the crease in Catherine’s brow belied her words.

Mary looked down at her phone again. She should call Lola, she told her she would. But instead, she found her fingers scrolling through her messages to a text chain that hadn’t been updated in nearly a year.

_Mary: I don’t know if you saw the news—Francis is in the hospital._

_Bash: What? What happened._

_Mary: They don’t know yet. They’re running tests. He collapsed earlier today._

Bash didn’t reply, but Mary didn’t expect him to. Bash wasn’t much of a texter, but Mary was certain that he was already looking up flights to DC for the afternoon. It was an oddly calming thought.

She opened Kenna’s text from earlier.

_Mary: Sorry—I didn’t know how to reply with everything that was happening. Are you all right?_

_Kenna: It’s ok. I’m…I’m scared. I just had a long meeting with the White House Counsel, and I don’t know what I can put into writing right now. Is it selfish to hope that Francis’ being sick might have bought some time for us to plan how to handle?_

_Mary: A little bit. Though I also don’t blame you. This is bad._

_Kenna: How is he?_

_Mary: They don’t know._

She leaned her head back against the wall. Catherine was still on the phone—apparently with Margot because she was telling her there was no need for her to come down from Cambridge, though they would of course be happy to have her.

Her fingers hovered over her phone. Then they clicked into the last text Francis had sent her. _I can’t see you?_

There was a lump in her throat.

He’d be fine. He’d be fine.

_Well...You were planning on abandoning our marriage, flee France, and run off with my cousin, so...I no longer care what you do._

Why was that what she was thinking of? She hadn’t dreamed that dream in months.

She closed her eyes, and bit her lip, and did her best not to cry.

* * *

The President arrived an hour later, going to speak with the doctor as Catherine had when she’d first arrived. He did not greet Catherine, though he did give her a guarded look.

Catherine waved Mary over. “At some point in the next few days, I imagine, there’s going to be a story about how my husband has been screwing your friend Kenna,” she said. “Perhaps Kenna’s already warned you of it, you don’t seem surprised. No. No. Don’t try and say anything on that subject. I don’t care what you knew. I’ll take your discretion as a sign of loyalty, rather than a sign of betrayal in this instance, because god knows a scandal like this won’t be good for anyone.” Catherine gave her a look which Mary was too tired to return. “Henry’s been trying to convince me that I should stand at his side like some loyal wife who understands that he’s a philandering man, like I did when all the news stories about Diane came out.” She rolled her eyes. “If he’s going to play politics over my bill, I’m going to play politics over his image. At least, it seems, the affair was consensual.”

Mary let Catherine talk. When Catherine was stressed, or angry, or bored, she tended to go on longwinded monologues. Mary’s head was too full of visions of Francis’ bleeding ear.

“In any case—if the media has any respect worth a damn, they’ll wait until Francis is out of the hospital before dropping this bomb. Not that I expect that. But I’m going to need you working overtime I’m sure, because whether or not I’m involved, I’m eternally the shrew that couldn’t keep her husband’s interest.”

Mary found herself nodding.

“Hopefully they’ll wait until he’s…until he’s better,” she said quietly, and Catherine gave her a look.

“He’s being taken care of,” she said, and she sounded like she was trying to convince herself as much as Mary.

The President came back out to the waiting room and sat down without a word to either Catherine or Mary. Catherine stared at him balefully, and he said, heatedly. “He’s my son, Catherine.”

“Yes I know. I’d be glaring at you even more if you weren’t here,” she said. “You at least have always pretended to be a good father, even when you’ve not bothered pretending to be a loyal husband. But I suppose there’s always room for you to let me down on that front too.”

* * *

The doctor’s arrival brought Mary out of her numb reverie. “He’s awake,” she told the President, who got to his feet immediately and he and Catherine hurried down the hallway, the doctor still talking quietly.

_Mary: Francis is awake. They moved away before I got more details._

_Lola: Oh thank god. There’s been a lot of ridiculous speculation on television. Saturdays are the worst news days because nothing else is happening._

_Mary: Did Kenna text you?_

_Lola: Should she have?_

Mary took a deep breath and changed to Kenna’s text window.

_Mary: Do the others know that this is going to break?_

_Kenna: I haven’t known how to tell them._

_Mary: I can if you like._

_Kenna: I’m scared._

_Mary: We’ll help you through it, I promise._

_Mary: We love you._

_Kenna: I know. I keep trying to remind myself of that._

_Kenna: Please tell them. In the group thread._

Mary nodded at her phone and changed windows once again.

_Mary: There’s going to be a story sometime in the next few days in all likelihood about Kenna and H’s relationship. Someone got hold of it. We don’t know when. Francis’ situation may have delayed it. It might not have._

Lola and Greer began typing at once.

_Lola: Kenna <3 Let us know if there’s anything we can do. _

_Greer: Nooooo. Babe, I’m so sorry. If you need to hide out at my place you’re welcome to it._

_Kenna: <3_

Mary heard footsteps and looked up. The President was hurrying down the hall, talking quietly with one of his staffers. He didn’t look at Mary, or acknowledge her presence in any way. Mary got to her feet and made her way up the ward, looking through windows of hospital rooms until she saw Catherine sitting at Francis’ bedside, speaking with a doctor. Francis’ face was obscured by a curtain. She couldn’t see him. Was he still awake? Was he still bleeding?

Catherine saw her and waved her in.

She stepped in just enough to see past the curtain. Francis’ eyes were closed again. But the bleeding seemed to have stopped at least.

“I don’t actually trust Henry to take care of this because he has the other thing on his mind right now,” Catherine said dryly. “Can you reach out to the children and let them know he’s stable? They’re doing diagnostic work still, trying to determine what, in fact is wrong, but that they’re confident he’ll recover once they’ve diagnosed.”

Mary nodded. She looked at Francis again. There was an IV in his arm, and he still had dark circles under his eyes. “Anything else I can do?” she asked, still looking at him.

“I may need you today. Henry’s trying to get them to push their story back. They’re planning on running it tonight—saying the American people deserve to know. He said he’d handle it, and I’m not touching it, but I’m worried they’ll think it’s him putting pressure to silence them rather than simple human courtesy of my son is in the hospital.”

“I’ll be here,” Mary said.

“Here with me, and not with Kenna?”

The question hung in the air. Mary stiffened. She could see a seething anger in Catherine’s eyes that she did not like. “Here for both of you,” she said determinedly. “If you don’t trust that, you don’t trust me at all.”

Catherine leaned back in her chair, watching Mary. “I suppose we’ll see. If I believe it of anyone, I believe it of you.” She looked back at Francis, and Mary knew that she had nothing more to say.

“I won’t keep her in the dark,” Mary said. “She deserves to know when the press is going to drag her through the mud.”

Catherine didn’t say anything. She didn’t even look at her, and Mary turned on her heel and went away.

_Mary: H is trying to delay the story right now because of Francis’ situation. Don’t know if he’ll succeed. I’ll keep you posted if I hear more. Are they giving you updates?_

_Kenna: Not really. The White House Counsel has told me just to keep my mouth shut and not to say anything without a lawyer and that’s the last thing I heard. Henry hasn’t been in touch at all._

_Mary: I’ll let you know what I can._

_Kenna: <3 I’m on my way to Greer’s right now. I don’t want to be alone._

_Mary: Good. If I can, I’ll find you there. Today’s…a lot._

Mary went back the waiting room again and opened her work email on her phone. Her battery was running low, but surely someone at this hospital had a charger she could borrow.

_Subject: [From Your Mother] Francis_

_To: Leeza, Claude, Charles, Henry, Margot, Hercules_

_CC: Bash, Lola_

_Francis is in stable condition in GW Hospital right now. They are still working on a diagnosis, but the doctors are confident that his condition won’t worsen. He woke up briefly a little while ago but is asleep again._

_Not sure if your mother is checking her texts/emails right now, but I’m in the hospital with her for the time being. If you want to reach her at all, let me know/call her. I’m sure she’ll pick up if you call. I’ll send out updates as I can._

She hit send, then closed her eyes for a moment and tried to think of her last dream of Francis, of him recovering and hopeful. Instead, she saw his bleeding ears that morning.

She went to find a phone charger.

* * *

“A story breaking now—it seems that President Valois has been having an illicit affair with a member of the White House Staff named Kenna Livingston the Washington Post is reporting. The two were photographed earlier this week following an event at the White House.”

Mary stared at the television. It was evening, and the sky was dark outside and she got to her feet at once, hurrying down the hallway to Francis’ room. She opened the door and Catherine looked up. “He couldn’t delay the story,” she said.

“Of course he couldn’t,” Catherine said angrily. “All flash, but the moment you require anything of substance from him. He couldn’t give me _one day_ to learn what was going on with Francis.”

She got to her feet, looking back at her son. “I don’t want him to wake up alone,” she said.

“He won’t have to.”

Mary turned. “Bash!”

Francis’ half-brother was standing there, looking tired, a bag slung over his shoulder.

Catherine looked at Bash, standing stiffly. She did not particularly like Henry’s son by Diane, but she could never doubt that he loved his brother. “Thank you,” she said. “You’ll let us know if they come back with any information.”

“Of course,” Bash said.

“And if he wakes up—”

“I’ll be sure to let him know why you aren’t here.” _Another thing I knew but didn’t tell him._ Mary’s stomach twisted. Would that matter? He’d been so hurt when she hadn’t told him about Lola and Narcisse. That seemed years ago now. And this felt entirely different, especially since Francis had seemed to notice it as well.

Catherine sighed and rolled her eyes. “I can’t believe he did this,” she said. “Except, of course, that I would be wholly surprised if he hadn’t. He’s never been one to keep it in his pants. It was always going to be the ruination of him.”

Bash said nothing, and Catherine swept by him. “If there are updates,” Mary said to him stiffly, “You’ll reply to the chain I started with your half-siblings?”

“I’ll keep everyone posted,” he said.

Mary wanted to hug him but he was already crossing the room to sit in Catherine’s vacated chair. So she looked at Francis one last time, then hurried off after Catherine.

* * *

Mary kept her eye on her phone the whole night. Lola and Greer texted her with updates about Kenna—who had made herself sick with worry and was avoiding her phone because she couldn’t bear any of the messages that were coming through to it. Greer had shut it off, and told Mary that she’d let Kenna know when the others texted.

_Greer: I’m monitoring her media intake right now. We’re watching the Princess Diaries and trying to ignore the world._

_Lola: You’re a gem of a human being._

Bash had emailed Francis’ siblings to let them know that Mary and Catherine had left the hospital, but that he was there now. Catherine was on the phone with Hercules, who had spent most of the day working on a History paper and was now upset by everything and avoiding his father.

“I know, darling,” Catherine was saying quietly into her cell phone. “I know. And it will continue for a while. It’s a blood sport, but you mustn’t let it get to you. This is about—yes, I know. No, he shouldn’t have. I assure you that I am…”

Mary’s phone rang from a blocked number, and she picked it up. “Mary,” she said, and heard Eduard Narcisse on the other end of the line.

“Are you with the First Lady?”

“Yes, we’re on our way back to the White House.”

“Her line’s busy—can you put her on?”

“She’s comforting her sixteen-year-old son right now, so something tells me you’re going to have to wait.”

Catherine heard Mary and nodded even as she said, “I’ll be home in about fifteen minutes. Do you want to be in the room as we discuss? If not, I understand, and will come up to see you when I’m…”

“This is a matter of importance,” Eduard said.

“The Communications Office is always the one that’s telling us she needs to behave more maternally and now that she’s actually being a mother to her children you say that Henry’s infidelity is more important? How do you get out of the bed in the morning?” She remembered—too late—that Eduard didn’t work in the Communications Office anymore. She viciously hoped it stung that she hadn’t remembered.

Catherine raised her eyebrows in an approving way and Mary waited for Eduard to speak.

He didn’t.

“If that’s all, we’ll be back at the White House in fifteen minutes. I’m sure that whatever you need from her can wait fifteen minutes.”

Mary hung up the phone as Catherine was saying her goodbyes to Hercules.

“I could kill him,” Catherine muttered to Mary. “In his sleep, poison, whatever. Make it look like an accident. I could very easily do it.” She sighed and leaned her head back against the headrest. “Should you ever marry, Mary, marry someone who respects you. Not just your mind, or your wit, or your money—you. Henry takes turns respecting parts, but never the whole.”

“I’ll do my best,” Mary said. “I…” she didn’t know what she was going to say, though, so she stopped. Dreams of Francis while he was lying in a hospital bed made her feel unbelievably anxious, given how her dreams had gone for so many years. “Is it even possible to have both? Marriage and…” And what? Everyone kept pushing her towards politics, and she’d be lying to herself if she didn’t want some sort of power, some sort of control. _I don’t dream I’m a queen for no reason._

Catherine opened her eyes. “Maybe by the time you’re my age, you can. But I’ve seen what happens to women who try. I’ve lived it. They make you choose: fight the fight for everyone, or acknowledge the constraints of the game against you and ruin anyone who plays at your expense, and do all you can to hold as much as you can in your own hands. Either way—it’s lonely.” She laughed humorlessly. “God it’s lonely. Even with your friends at your side,” she gave Mary a look. “That’s what Kenna was doing. She may have fancied herself in love with him—but he dangles power in front of those he would use. I can hate her for this, for putting me through this, for putting my children through this, but god if I don’t understand how it happened all too well. But no man can ever provide you with the autonomy we so strive for. No matter how good a man he may be. It’s yours to claim if you’re brave enough to claim it.”

“And should be given at birth,” Mary murmured.

“Should bes are dangerous. They make us forget where we are and how we live. Henry should be respectful of me. That doesn’t mean he is. No woman should ever have to live through assault and rape. You and I both know that’s not how it goes.”

Mary looked at Catherine sharply. _You and I…_

She knew from her dreams, but had never heard Catherine say anything about it. _They make us forget where we are and how we live._

“Yes, before you ask,” Catherine said simply. “A long time ago.”

Mary nodded. She knew Catherine well enough to know that Catherine wouldn’t want her to say anything at all. Catherine wanted everything, and sometimes Mary would be at her throat about it, but now was not one of the times.

Almost instantly upon arriving at the White House, Catherine was accosted by three of Henry’s staffers, who led her and Mary through the West Wing and into the Oval Office.

Mary hadn’t spent much time in the Oval Office—she’d come here maybe once since the inauguration, and only ever with Catherine. Catherine sat down on one of the sofas and Mary stood behind her watching the faces of the men in the room. _Only men,_ she noted, _except for the two of us._

“This is bad,” Eduard said as a start.

“Is it?” Catherine said dryly. “Really surrounding yourself with the best and brightest, aren’t you, Henry—telling me things I can determine with my own undoubtedly inferior powers of observation.”

“I know that you’re angry with me, but please for the love of god, take this seriously, Catherine,” the President snapped. “Even you should be capable of that.”

“In what world do you think I’m not taking this seriously? I’m taking this more seriously than you are, I’d hazard. Rather like our marriage vows.” Some of his staffers shifted uncomfortably. “Did that make some of you uncomfortable? I’m so sorry. By all means, let me make this experience as painless as possible for you.” She rolled her eyes.

“My office is preparing a statement,” Henry said. “And I’d like very much for you to be at my side when I make it.”

“How sorry you are to have misled the American people, how sorry you are to me, and to our children. Excuse me, but I did that when your years-long affair with Diane came out and it didn’t seem to change your behavior at all. So forgive me if I absent myself this time around.”

“Ms. De Medici, please think about the optics—”

“The optics? I’m trying to put a bill through Congress right now on sexual assault and rape legislation and my husband can’t keep it in his pants. In what world do I stand at his side and not look like a complete fool with a serially philandering husband?”

“You signed up to be at my side for this when I ran for president,” Henry said.

“Oh, I assure you, I didn’t sign up for _this_ , Henry. No one _ever_ signs up for this. _Seven_ children, I’ve given you. I didn’t sign up for _this._ ””

She stood and made for the door. “If that’s all.”

“It is not all,” the President said loudly, and Catherine turned, eyebrows raised.

“Even now, a stunning lack of humility. How are you going to be able to convince the American people of true contrition?”

“We can play her absence as being at the hospital, taking care of Francis,” said Eduard.

“How about speaking directly to me rather than about me as I stand right here,” Catherine said heatedly.

“And I don’t suppose it occurred to you for a second that everyone in this country will see right through that,” Mary interjected. Everyone stared at her. They’d seemed to have forgotten she was in the room at all. She continued through their surprise. “Not a single person in this country isn’t going to think that Catherine taking care of her son is wrong, but her not standing at her husband’s side for an announcement like this is going to be significantly more telling on any count. It will make you look weaker, not stronger. If you cared about the _optics_ ,” she said, turning to look at Eduard angrily, “of _everyone_ involved, you’d see that. If the whole point of this is about a _lie_ , adding _more_ lies to it is only going to make more trouble for you. Better to tell the truth—that Catherine is furious with the whole situation, than to use Francis’ hospitalization for your own political gain. And if not for Catherine, then maybe consider how Francis would feel about it when he wakes up.”

“And you’re the expert on how my son operates as part of this family now?” Henry demanded.

“Since you appear not to be,” Mary retorted. “You know I’m right.”

“Why is she here?” the President asked no one in particular.

“Because she does good work and because she—” Catherine stopped short and looked at Mary as though, oddly, realizing that she were there. “she has more sense in her head at twenty-seven than you’ve ever had in your life.” Mary blinked, quite sure that wasn’t what Catherine had been about to say. “Now I ask again—are we done?”

Silence stretched and Catherine took that as a sign to leave. Mary followed her to the Residence, up the stairs to the Lincoln Bedroom. Catherine opened her dresser and found several pairs of clothes, then led Mary back out of the Lincoln Bedroom and to the room that Margot had lived in until she’d gone off to college. “I think I’ll stay here for a time,” Catherine said, and she closed the door behind her and Mary. It was then that she turned to Mary, eyes narrowed.

“I didn’t think about it until we were in the Oval—you were with Francis when he collapsed.”

Mary took a deep breath. “Yes,” she said.

Catherine didn’t say anything. She turned away from Mary and began putting the clothes she’d taken out of her wardrobe on top of Margot’s dresser. “You should go.”

“You said you’d need me,” Mary said at once.

“You’ve had a long day, Mary. I’ll need you tomorrow, I’m sure.”

“But—”

“For god’s sake, let me be nice to one person, will you? If I have to have my heart ripped out and dragged about for the entertainment of billions of people worldwide, at least let me be nice to one person without question? Is that too much to ask?”

Her back was still to Mary.

“No, ma’am,” Mary said quietly. “Good night. Let me know if you need me.”


	9. Chapter 9

_“Just hold me.  When you hold me, I can forget everything.”_

_And Francis held her.  He held her tightly, and she buried her face in his neck and breathed.  This was what home smelled like.  This was what home felt like, the warmth of his arms, the sound of his beating heart, strong and alive, against hers.  He ran a hand gently over her hair, and she tried, she tried to focus on that, to empty everything else from her mind._

_“Do you think it will come back?” she asked him, nervous._

_“It will,” Francis assured her.  “I know it.”_

_“How do you know it?” she asked him.  She made the mistake of pulling away as she looked into his clear eyes.  There were creases around the edges of them now, and the beard that had grown in patchily when she’d first met him now was fuller, if still quite short.  He looked older, and the feeling of home, of rightness faded._

_“Because we always find our way back to one another,” he said simply.  He took her hand.  It still fit in hers.  “We would have always had to this time—even if we’d leapt into one another’s arms, leapt into bed…you were gone for two years.  And if your two years were anything like mine…we’d always have had to find one another again.  Come.  Sit.”  Had it really been two years?  Two years since her dead son, since Elizabeth had imprisoned her?  It felt like it had been decades._

_He led her to a sofa by the fire.  She’d nursed Philippe on this sofa, her joyous boy with Francis’ eyes.  He’d suckled greedily from her.  When she’d descended from the carriage several days before, her joyous boy—already nearly four, had looked at her nervously._

“This is maman _,_ ” _James had told him, proud and six.  He’d been doing all he could to contain his excitement as Mary had knelt down before her three beautiful children and held them in her arms_.  “Did you miss us maman?” _Anne had asked, and Mary had bit back tears of joy.  But Philippe was still anxious._

_“You’re always so sure,” Mary murmured to Francis.  “How are you always so sure?”_

_“You are my light,” Francis said simply and he pulled her against him, her head tucked under his chin.  “I can safely say I never can or will love anyone as much as I love you, Mary Stuart.  And even if the passion isn’t what it was…why should that mean anything for how ardently I love you?  Love isn’t only passion.”_

_“You sound like a man trying to convince me,” Mary said._

_“Do you not wish to be convinced?” Francis asked.  She tilted her head up.  “Is that not what all this is?  ‘Just hold me.  When you hold me, I can forget everything.’  What is it you are trying to forget?”_

_Mary swallowed.  It had been so long since anyone had demanded honesty of her.  Her brother James had encouraged it, and she’d given it gladly, but the honesty of a sister and the honesty of a queen were so different from the honesty that Francis was demanding of her now—the sort he’d always demanded._ The honesty of my heart.

_Her heart, which felt shriveled and so very sad these past two years, ever since their son had died.  Mary dreaded—and would dread until she was too old—miscarrying, but miscarrying and the death of a child on the day of his birth…She’d not thought she could be happy again for so long.  She’d taken comfort in her ruling, in time spent with James, in planning and making peace and everything that had taken up the full two years until Francis had written to her with his plans._

_“How dark it was,” she whispered to him.  “How dark it was after he died.  How hard I had to make myself to survive it.  How frightened I am that Philippe will never know me, or love me, that for all your words that you love me and shall never stop it will never be as it was between us and slowly even you will turn away from me, that Elizabeth will arrive at court and see me low and think she has won even if she had to release me, that—” she cut herself off.  Francis’ arm tightened around her._

_“That what?”_

_“That I am low.  That all I ever try to be shall fail.  That Scotland will rip itself apart between Protestants and Catholics, that my son will inherit a divided kingdom, that my legacy as queen will be that I was too weak to bear it all—that I am too weak to—”_

_“You are not,” Francis said firmly.  “You’re the strongest person I know, Mary.  Stronger by far than me.”_

_“Am I?” she asked.  “I don’t know that that’s true.”  She stood and walked towards the fire, staring into it.  Even the fire smelled different in France.  They used different wood to burn here in the castle.  Should that also not make her feel at home?  She was Queen of France, as much as she was Queen of Scotland.  “I think there was some part of me that hoped that I’d return and just feel myself again.  But maybe I can’t.  Maybe this is myself?”_

_“Fears that your children won’t love you is not you,” Francis said calmly.  “James and Anne missed you terribly and are elated at your return.  And Philippe is a sweet boy.  He will come to love you with time.  You must give yourself time, Mary.”  There was something in his voice that made Mary turn around for he was smiling, and there was a glow in his eyes that was all too familiar._

_“What?” she asked._

_“Patience has never been your strong suit.”_

_She gave him a look.  “As if it’s been yours,” she muttered._

_“I’m more patient than you, though that beggars the compliment, I think.”_

_He was teasing her, and for half a moment she felt the urge to smile.  But she turned back to the fire.  She heard Francis stand and he came and stood behind her, resting a hand on her hip.  “Your heart,” he murmured into her ear, “is more full of love than anyone I have ever known.  Your soul is bright, and strong.  You are cleverer by half than Elizabeth Tudor, and you are home now.  As I said before, if your past two years have been anything like mine, there was always the chance we’d have to find one another again.  I had hoped we wouldn’t, as I’m sure you did.  But there was always the chance.”_

_Mary thought of Olivia, even—though she refused to dwell on it—of Lola, of fears that Francis, like his father, would find love elsewhere if she became too cold, too distant._ I am not Catherine, and he is not Henry, _she told herself fiercely._

_There.  That felt like herself.  Some part of her that was still the headstrong girl._

_“I hope you’re right,” she said._

_“I know that I am.  You are my light,” he said once again, “even in the darkest of times, even when you are at your darkest.  You’re my only hope of salvation.”_

_“Don’t say that,” Mary said firmly, automatically._

_“It is the truth, even if I don’t say it,” Francis insisted, and she felt herself flaring again at it.  He was still determined of it, after all these years._

_She turned around.  Whatever was in her face was not what he was expecting, for his eyebrows twitched in curiosity._

_“When did you have this made?” she asked, running a hand over his doublet.  The embroidery was fine—black and gold with blue and red flowers.  Far more extravagant than anything he’d had made when she’d last been at court._

_Francis gave a wry smile.  “My mother did.”_

_“She has been dressing you in my absence?”_

_“She said I was too young to look that severe.”_

_Mary smiled.  “It suits you,” she said.  She sighed.  “I suppose Claude will make comments about how Scottish my wardrobe is now, won’t she?  Will she send me her dressmaker again?”_

_“She means well,” Francis said._

_“I know.  It’s just…” she paused again and looked out of the window, thinking.  “How Scottish should I look for Elizabeth?”_

_They had barely talked about Elizabeth since she’d gotten back, beyond the cursory goal.  Elizabeth’s marriage was fruitless thus far, and it made the English nervous.  Mary’s son, James, had the strongest claim to the English throne of anyone in the world, and Mary had another son as well.  But the English would never wish to give their throne over to a Frenchman, and James was the_ Catholic _Crown Prince of Scotland and Dauphin of France._

 _She was the reason Mary was not in Scotland still.  Francis had written to her, saying that during the summer, he had invited Elizabeth and her consort to the French court to meet his sons._ It would be good if you were here, _he had written,_ and I hope you will come.

_So she had._

_She had, and nothing had felt right until this very moment_.  Must it always be Elizabeth? _She wondered as she returned to the sofa, sitting facing Francis this time as he sat down with her as well._

_“She arrives in a week,” Mary said, “And we must be prepared for her.”_

_“We’ve been preparing,” Francis said easily.  “Dinners and dances and parties.  I expect to take her hunting at least once, and I had rather thought—if you should like—the two of you might go hawking with the children.”_

_“That’s not what I meant, though I am glad to hear it,” she said.  “I meant you and I.  We must be what she expects us to be, and yet not, or else we’ll never win her over.  We must exceed her expectations in all things, both as individuals and as king and queen.  And she already has such expectations of me—as I would, as I do, her.”_

_“A clever queen who sits to her north and her south, who has turned some of her northern lords to Scotland rather than her throne.  A cousin, a Catholic, a queen, backed by the Pope, with children to inherit after her,” Francis listed them off for he knew them as well as Mary did, had known them for years._

_“A rival,” Mary said, “A rival who is tired of rivalry, who wants no more than peace, and peaceful relations with my family.”_

_“She won’t believe that,” Francis said at once._

_“No, she won’t,” Mary agreed.  “I wouldn’t in her.  Which is, I suppose, why it is good that we meet at last.”  The words felt odd in her mouth.  “In truth, I’d never thought to meet her.”_

_“Yet she comes.”_

_“She does,” Mary agreed.  “And you…”_

_“She knows only of reputation,” Francis said, “So whatever it is that foreigners think of me, she is likely to share the opinion.  That, and the fact that I would have waged war with her had she not released you.”_

_She could hear it in his voice now, that bubbling furious determination that Catherine had warned Elizabeth about._

_“That you threatened war,” Mary corrected._

_“I would have waged it,” Francis said firmly.  “How many years of war have the English waged in France over the years, but for you I would have sent French troops into England.  Never doubt that, Mary.”_

_“So she has been outsmarted by me, and has been bested by you…” Mary said.  “Good god, she’ll feel so very forced if we aren’t careful.”_

_“The worst that can happen is that things will continue as they are,” Francis replied.  “That James will lead Scotland and France and continue to be an axe hanging over the head of her country—as my father and your mother intended.  The worst that can happen is that all this persists.  And that future…” he took her hand again and his gaze was so intent.  “That future is one we always wanted as well.  To defy my father, and the Pope, and to just let ourselves be…”_

_But even with the hope shining in his eyes, Mary felt fear.  Once she would have leaned in to kiss him, would have pulled him towards their bed for that look in his eyes._

_The joy she’d felt faded.  “She must believe us deeply in love,” Mary said slowly._

_“That shouldn’t be hard,” Francis said, and Mary closed her eyes.  She couldn’t bear to look at his face when she said the next words._

_“It will be,” she whispered.  “There are times when I forget that it is—holding you, or, apparently, planning with you.  But that is still forgetting.  I must remember,” she said.  She didn’t dare open her eyes yet.  She didn’t want to see his hurt there._ Am I such a coward?

_She opened them and he was watching her carefully.  “Then we shall pretend,” he said carefully, and his tone was guarded.  “We shall pretend, as we did for Lord Westbrook when you first arrived, as we must.  And perhaps in pretending, you shall remember.”_

_“I hope so,” Mary said quietly.  “I fear…I fear that it won’t be so easy.  And the expectation that it might be might only make it worse when it isn’t,” Mary said._

_“When,” Francis said.  “You sound like someone who’s accepted defeat already.  I’ve never known that of you, Mary.”_

_“I don’t want to accept defeat,” Mary said._

_“Then, if France is Scotland’s ally, let me be an ally to you now, in hopes that you won’t be defeated,” Francis said and there was an edge under the teasing tone, a pain he was trying to hide for her sake._

_“What—are you proposing wooing me?” she said, doing her best to match that same teasing tone.  She could hear her own sadness, though.  Would it never go away?_

_“Wooing?  Do you need to be wooed?”_

_“I don’t recall you ever wooing me,” Mary said and she felt amusement bloom in her breast like a lily.  “In fact, I recall quite the opposite of that—you telling me how things were done in France and closing doors in my face.”_

_“And I recall you trying to marry my brother in my stead.”_

_“To keep you alive,” Mary said, stung._

_“And here I am, alive and well.”  His eyes were soft though.  If it still hurt, she saw no sign of it—not near so much as the idea that she might not be able to love him anymore._

_But that was wrong she realized.  She did love him—loved him dearly, as someone who knew her, and protected her.  Loved her as she loved her friends.  It wasn’t a passionate love, and that was what she wanted.  Wasn’t it?  He’d said he’d be content if they were to just be friends—but she doubted that was the truth.  My heart beats in time with his.  We want the same thing.  We have the same goals.  Surely, surely that will help?_

* * *

Mary opened her eyes and fumbled in the dark for her phone.  She hadn’t slept nearly long enough, but she didn’t care. 

_Subject: RE: [From Your Mother] Francis_

_To: Leeza, Claude, Charles, Henry, Margot, Hercules, Lola, Mary_

_They have a diagnosis for him now and are medicating.  He should be approaching fine in the next few hours, though may need to hang out here for a few days.  Still TBD.  Catherine’s back in the ward now, so I’m signing off duty.  Bash._

Mary felt warmth flood through her.  They had a diagnosis.  He would be all right.  He would be all right.

It gave her the strength to scroll through headlines from the day before.

They weren’t pleasant. 

“Catherine’s going to be livid,” she muttered to herself as she scrolled through commentaries about Catherine’s character, about Kenna’s, about Henry’s history of cheating and lying, and speculation that Kenna was pregnant, that Catherine was going to divorce Henry, even that Diane couldn’t be reached for comment.

Few of the news articles that Mary clicked into mentioned Henry’s apology—though he had made his statement publicly the night before—except to say that Catherine had not been at his side.  Fewer articles still mentioned Francis.

_Mary: Checking in—Bash said you were at the hospital.  Anything I can help with?_

_Catherine: I went back to the White House an hour ago.  Wanted to have breakfast with Hercules and Margot.  She did end up coming down from Cambridge.  I’ll be back at the hospital in another hour._

_Mary: Have you been reading the news?_

_Catherine: You’re the ninth person to ask me that and it’s only eight in the morning._

_Catherine: Yes.  I’ve read the news.  There’s a reason I plan to spend today at the hospital._

_Catherine: Because sitting there watching my convalescing son be healed through the glories of modern medicine, however arduously slow a process that might be, is significantly more appealing than sitting here trying to avoid CNN._

_Catherine: Join me at the hospital, so long as you promise not to talk to me about what’s going on outside it.  Otherwise you can have your Sunday._

Sunday.  It was only Sunday.  It felt like it had been years.  Had yesterday really only been one day?  Francis had collapsed less than twenty-four hours before.

Mary texted Greer and Lola next. 

_Mary: How’s Kenna?_

_Greer: She’s asleep.  I gave her some sleeping pills last night and I hope they’ll carry her through a good portion of the morning.  The news has not been good, and we’re trying to spare her some of it._

_Lola: There were apparently a ton of news vans parked outside her apartment last night, so it’s good we caught wind of it when we did and got her out of there._

_Lola: I’m going to bring Jean over and maybe visit Francis, unless you think he’ll be overwhelmed.  Do you know if he’s awake yet?_

_Mary: I’m going to be at the hospital with Catherine again today, so I can keep you posted.  Tell Kenna that I’ll come over if she needs me._

_Greer: I’m not entirely sure she wants to see anyone.  She’s spent a lot of yesterday crying.  And checking twitter before I got her phone away from her, I can’t blame her._

_Mary: Oh god—I’ve been avoiding twitter._

_Greer: Keep doing that.  It’s not a good time._

Mary groaned.  _Poor Kenna._ She could only imagine what was being said—of both Kenna and Catherine.  She hoped, at least, there were some think pieces about how society was behaving in a way that allowed for the network of laws that Catherine was hoping to update to exist in the first place.  If there weren’t, she probably had enough anger in her to anonymously post one somewhere.

She wanted to see Kenna.  She hadn’t seen Kenna since it had happened, hadn’t been close or anything.  But Greer said she didn’t want people nearby.  Did that count Mary?  Lola was going to Greer’s, after all. 

But she still wouldn’t believe Francis was fine until she saw it with her own eyes.  Not after how many dreams of clutching his corpse in the woods.  Was she truly the sort of person who’d pick Francis over her friends? 

_“It kills me—that you’re right, and that I wish you’d chosen me anyway.”_

Maybe if he hadn’t said the word “kill,” hadn’t entwined his death with it, she’d have gone to Kenna.  But instead, she texted Catherine.

_Mary: On my soul no mention of the outside world._

Then she climbed out of bed and got dressed.

* * *

Mary arrived at GW hospital, wading her way through a crowd of people and journalists.  In her sunglasses and holding a cup of coffee, she thankfully made it mostly through without anyone recognizing her.

Until—

“Mary Stuart!  Mary!” And she made the mistake of turning.  There was a microphone jabbed in her face.  “Mary, Hi.  Do you have a comment about Francis’ health?”

“Sorry—I really can’t—”

“Mary, how has the First Lady handled news of the President’s infidelity?”

“You’re friends with Kenna Livingston aren’t you?  Does she have anything to say?”

“Please let me through,” Mary said loudly.  “Excuse me.”

“If you’re going to harangue someone, harangue me,” came Catherine’s voice and the four reporters who were surrounding Mary whirled about.  Catherine was getting out of a black car, flanked with secret service agents.  She looked tired and wasn’t wearing a lick of makeup.  “But do it quickly.  I have a son I’d like to see.”

“Ma’am, you were absent from your husband’s statement last night.”

“Yes.  As mentioned, I have a son in the hospital,” she pointed out.

“You weren’t here though,” said another reporter quickly.

“There’s more to having a son in the hospital than being here, especially when one has six other children to communicate with, who—if they weren’t terrified by seeing footage of their brother collapsing on national television yesterday, had their minds full of quite a lot more than they were expecting by the time the sun set.”

“Do you have anything to say to your husband?”

Catherine gave the reporter a withering look.  “Yes.  And I’ve done so.”

“Can you give the American People a sense of what that might be?”

“The American People surely have more than enough of an imagination to fill in the blanks,” Catherine said dryly.  “One more. Then I’m going inside.”

“Anything to say about Kenna?”

Catherine’s head snapped towards the reporter—a plain looking man in glasses who almost took a step back so hard was her gaze.  “Anything to say about Kenna?” she repeated and Mary’s stomach clenched in fear and she bit back an interjection because that would only make the whole situation worse. 

“I’ve got quite a lot to say about Kenna.  And myself, really.  Because I’ve read your little headlines.  Calling her a slut and calling me a shrew—but somehow Henry gives a mediocre apology to me, my children, and the American people and it’s about me, and Kenna, and not his poor choices as a husband and father.  I’m working _very_ hard right now on a bill that will protect women from sexual violence in this country.  Do you really think I’m not also thinking about how women are perceived, how stories will go about undermining and dehumanizing them?  Kenna made poor choices, and perhaps I have a sharp tongue.  Why does that get more room in the headlines than my husband?  Boys will be boys?  Don’t ask me about Kenna again, and for god’s sake, don’t ruin the girl’s life over the same god-forsaken stupidity that I got myself married to.  There,” she turned to one of the other reporters.  “I suppose that answers your question about what I’ve been saying to my husband.  Mary,” she said gesturing and Mary followed her through the doors to the hospital.

“The President…” Mary began, not sure of what to say.

“Can wriggle out of that one if he can.  He was all peppy this morning because he wasn’t in the headlines nearly as much as he feared.  Of course, knowing the American news media, I’ll just have brought more heat down on myself.”

“You’ll probably trend on feminist twitter, and get a good Teen Vogue headline,” Mary pointed out.

“When did Teen Vogue start having actual substantial content?  When Claude was buying it, it was all about hair tips and…god knows what else.  I didn’t read the thing.”

Mary shrugged. 

“And make no mistake,” Catherine said as the two approached the room Francis was being kept in, “That wasn’t me defending Kenna from me.  Only from the American public.”  Mary paused and Catherine stopped and looked at her.  “What?”

“You said that either you chose to take as much power as you could hold in your own hands and make sure no one could wrest it from you, or you could fight for everyone,” she said slowly, watching Catherine carefully.

“Mary,” Catherine said, taking a step towards her, “Don’t finish that thought and accuse me of some sort of altruism.  At the very least consider that I might want to ruin Kenna’s life myself.  You know what I did to Diane de Poitiers.”

“Duly considered.”

“Oh, don’t use that tone with me.  I said I wanted to be nice to one person—and that one person is not the one sleeping with my husband.  Now I seem to recall you swearing to leave what’s outside of this hospital outside of this hospital.”

“Yes ma’am.”

She turned on her heel and marched into Francis’ room.  “You’re awake!”

And everything that had just happened fell away as Mary followed Catherine into the room.  Francis was sitting up in bed, looking tired and pale but smiling as his mother came over and hugged him and kissed the top of his head. 

“I was just watching the news,” he said slowly.  “Mom…”

“Don’t,” Catherine said.  “I just made Mary promise to leave it outside.”

Francis looked over at her.  Mary chanced a smile. 

He smiled back. 

Catherine looked between them.

“Do you two need a moment?” she asked dryly.

Neither of them said anything.

“Oh for the love of god,” Catherine muttered and she rounded the bed and left the room.  “Don’t take forever.  I can only distract myself for so long.”  And she shut the door behind her.

They both began to speak at once.

“Mary, I—”

“I was so worried.”

Francis’ face cracked into a smile that Mary tried to return to him.  Instead though, she felt herself beginning to cry.

“Why are you crying?” Francis looked perplexed.  “Mary—I was always going to be fine.  Penicillin is a magical thing.”

“Was it just penicillin?”

“I don’t know,” he confessed.  “My ears feel better.  I assume penicillin was involved.”

Mary laughed wetly.  “I…” Now, she supposed, was the time to tell him.  If there ever was a time.  “I mentioned that I’d dreamed of you.  Well, in some of those dreams you died with your ears bleeding.”

Francis blinked at her.

“And some of the ones more recently, you didn’t die.  And that’s been confusing,” she added.  “I don’t know what to make of any of it really.  It’s all…I don’t know.  There are parts of it that are weirdly prophetic.  Not that I’m crazy—I know that they’re just dreams.  But they echo real life before real life happens if that makes sense.”

“Not even a little,” Francis said, looking bemused.  “But I’m not dying Mary.  At least not now.  And not soon, either.”

“Good,” she said.  She’d dreamed they’d danced under the stars in Paris, after all.  Part of her wanted to go on, to make him understand just what the dreams were, what they told her, or what they might reflect of her subconscious psychology.  But the longer she looked at him, the more that need faded.  “I’m so relieved.  I was so worried.”

Francis held out a hand and it was only as she did so that she realized how far away from him she was standing.  She crossed the room and sat down next to him on the edge of the bed, taking the hand he reached out to her.  He squeezed it.

“What was it?” she asked as she ran her thumb over the top of his hand.

“I’ve already forgotten,” Francis said.  “Something with too many syllables and I didn’t go to med school for a reason.  But I’m sure Doctor Wu will tell you if you ask her.  She’s been good as far as I can tell.  I feel better though.  Like the sort of better that made me realize just how under the weather I’d been feeling for a while.”

Mary wanted to hug him, wanted to hold him, wanted to feel his heart beating next to hers as she kissed him.  Instead she just held his hand.

No.  No, she didn’t just hold his hand.

“What are we?” she asked him, and he gave her a crooked smile.

“I seem to recall asking you that a few weeks ago.”  She rolled her eyes at him and he smiled, his eyes crinkling. 

“And I asked you last Saturday.”

“True.  You did.”  Then the smile faded.  “But seriously,” he said slowly, and Mary sucked her lips between her teeth.  “Is this something we’re doing?  Like for real again?  Because if it’s not I really don’t know if I could come back from it.  Not to sound melodramatic, or make light of the fact that without penicillin this would have killed me…I’ve been trying to manage my own expectations this past week because I don’t want to put pressure on you, but if the whole point of us being friends was for me to protect my heart and you…” he paused, cocking his head.  “I don’t really understand the dream thing, in all honesty.”

Mary looked down at their hands, clasped on her lap.  “They started after I was raped,” she said.  “Right around when we broke up.  I just started dreaming that people in my life were…alive in the Renaissance.  It was all ridiculous, really.  Over the top.  I don’t know where in France it was set.  There were pagans and blood rituals that I’m pretty sure were both anachronistic and not geographically accurate.”  She shook her head.  “And they all seemed to be from this same story.”

“And I died,” Francis said.

Mary looked at him.  “And I was heartbroken.”

“That’s some consolation.”

“And a few weeks ago, they changed.  And you didn’t die.  And I’d had these dreams for years, mind you.  Like seven years of whatever stories it was—some of them repeated, all of them were connected.”

“So I died a bunch.”

“And then you started living,” she said and the cheeky smile on his face froze.  “You started living, and we were happy.  And like…defying the Pope in Rome and trying to unite France and Scotland, and see if we could maneuver me onto the English throne, and—” she cut herself short of telling him about three children.  And maybe more if the dreams kept on going.  “And I didn’t know what to make of that.  Still don’t, really.”

“Isn’t it obvious?” Francis asked.  “Clearly your subconscious is pointing you towards me.”

Mary laughed.  “I mean, that much is obvious, yes,” she said.  “There’s other stuff that’s less so…like how I dreamed your dad and Kenna would have an affair literally years before they met.”  _Like how you killed your father, and now don’t mind undermining his political agenda._ She’d save that one for later, though.

“So you’re a seer now, is that it?” He rolled his eyes.  “Naturally.  Of course you are.  My mother’s obsessed with the paranormal, so why wouldn’t I find myself attracted to someone who—”

Mary leaned forward and kissed him to shut him up.  His free hand came up to hold her cheek.  His lips were chapped, and his breath wasn’t great, but Mary didn’t care.  What mattered was that he was there, and that she was, and that he was alive, and that she was…was there with him, just simply there. 

When she stopped kissing him, she rubbed her nose against his for a moment, then rested her forehead against his.  “I want you to protect your heart,” she said slowly, “but I think it’s safe with me.”

Francis kissed her again, and his hand moved from her cheek to the back of her head, his tongue pushing into her mouth this time, and she made a little noise in the back of her throat.  Next to the bed, the heart monitor began to beep faster.

“Oh for fuck’s sake,” Francis muttered, glaring at it, his cheeks pink, and Mary laughed and wrapped her arms around him, resting her chin on his shoulder. 

“I wasn’t actually expecting this,” he said after a moment. 

“I know.”

“I mean it.  I was all ready for us to just be friends again.”

“Kenna wasn’t,” Mary said dryly.  Then she made a sad noise.

“Don’t think about it just yet,” Francis said and he turned his head towards hers ever so slightly.  “Not yet.  Just be here with me for a few more minutes.”

So she did.  She sat there in his arms, smelling the stale scent of his sweat and letting herself just be there until time passed them by.

* * *

Since Francis was conscious now, the hospital put its foot down for how long Mary and Catherine could stay there.  And the stern chief of medicine refused to budge on the matter.

“Which I suppose I respect,” Catherine muttered as she and Mary made their way through the hall.  “I _suppose_ it was only a matter of time before I had to face reality.  I’ve been ignoring calls from Henry all day.”

“Not pleased with your moment with the press earlier?” Mary asked.

“I suspect,” Catherine said shrugging.  “But I’m done cleaning up his messes for him.  I’ve had it.  He can go it on his own from now on—I don’t care.”

Mary looked at Catherine.  “You do,” she said slowly and Catherine’s eyebrows flew up.  “If only because you’ve got a lot of work left to do, and you don’t want him getting in your way.”

“Why do you have to say pragmatic things when I’m trying to make a point?” Catherine demanded.

Mary shrugged.  “You pay me to give you my honest take on things.”

“I do,” Catherine sighed.  Then she gave Mary a stern look.  “So I take it you are back with Francis, then?  From all those little looks that I had to sit through today?”

Mary took a deep breath.  “We’re trying it,” Mary said.  Trying felt like the wrong word.  She could see her future with Francis, years of love, happiness, children…but she wouldn’t say that to Catherine just yet.  Not least because she didn’t want to face Catherine if the whole thing _did_ go pear shaped, even if she didn’t expect it to.

Catherine nodded to her slowly, and there was a glow of approval behind her shrewd eyes.

“Well,” Catherine said.  “You and I have our path cut out for us, if we’re going to get him elected president one day.  Because maybe that’s where I’ll put my energy if I’m not cleaning up after Henry anymore.”

“And what makes you think that it’s going to be _Francis_ running between the two of us?” Mary asked and her heart was in her throat.  She’d said it more as a clapback to Catherine’s comment, but even as she stood there, she felt almost like that young queen on the precipice of rule, all potential and energy and idealism.  _I could do it,_ she thought.  _And…And I think I want to._ She’d have to figure out how to run for office in Maryland, and when.  But the time for denying what she wanted was over.  On this day, Mary finally felt as though she could commit herself.

Catherine raised her eyebrows and a slow smile crept across her face.  “Ahh,” she said.  “Good.  Yes.  Very good.”

* * *

Mary showed up at Greer’s apartment that evening with a bottle of wine and some donuts.  There were no signs of reporters on Greer’s street, and Greer buzzed her in quickly enough that she didn’t think anyone would recognize her.  It had been a strange few weeks, where she’d ended up on television enough that sometimes she thought she caught some moments of recognition in people’s eyes.

Kenna was lying on the couch while Lola was crouched down by the window with a set of blocks that Rosie and Jean were playing with. 

“How’s Francis?” Greer asked her as she shrugged out of her coat.

“Alive.”

“Melodramatic,” Greer teased. 

“Well, I was worried a bit yesterday.  But he’s up, and medicated, and should be out tomorrow.  I’m trying to convince him to take a sick day and everything.”

“Good luck,” Lola said.  “He’s a workaholic.  Did they say if it was contagious?”

“It seemed like no,” Mary said.  “I know he wants to see Jean.”

Mary went over to the couch and sat down, putting Kenna’s feet on her lap.  “What movies have you watched?”

“We did the _Princess Dairies_ , and _PS I Love You_ ,” Greer said.  “The latter was possibly not the best choice, but we both cried so that was good.”

“Did Catherine really defend me on television?” Kenna demanded.

“Theoretically,” Mary said.  “You should probably keep steering clear of her.”

“Lightning never strikes in the same place twice,” Lola said. 

“Something like that,” Mary said. 

“Greer said that twitter took up the cause,” Kenna sounded almost hopeful.

“The mainstream media still needs to get its act together,” Mary said.  She’d checked the headlines on her way over. 

“How did Catherine end up trending on twitter this much in the past month?” Lola asked.

“You work for her,” Mary laughed, half-incredulous.

“I know, but it still…blows my mind when I think about it.”

“She’s savage.  If there’s one thing twitter likes, it’s savagery,” Greer said, shrugging.

“Well, as long as that savagery isn’t being directed at me…” Kenna muttered. 

“Are you going to work tomorrow?” Mary asked.

“God no.  They’ve told me not to come in for a few days, and I’m going to be quitting probably.  Henry hasn’t called or texted and I’m just…” she shuddered.  “I don’t need that anxiety right now.  Greer says she can give me things to do in her bar for a little while, and then I’ll start looking for other jobs.”

“Honestly…” Mary paused, looking between them.  “Between you as a party planner and Greer as a bar-owner, you’ve probably got some events potential going on for the pair of you.”

Greer looked at Kenna, and Kenna raised her eyebrows.  “I’d consider it if you’re into it,” she said.

“Let’s talk tomorrow,” Greer said and Kenna smiled.

“God, that’s the first time I’ve smiled all weekend,” she said.  Mary patted her ankle.  “And I don’t know what I’d be if it weren’t for you.  Honestly, I’d probably be besieged by reporters in my apartment or something.  But I’m safe here—I know it.  I almost feel like things will be ok.”

“Don’t check twitter,” Greer said darkly.

“I won’t.  I’ll delete my account when you let me back onto my phone,” Kenna said.  “I’m deleting twitter, I’m going to find a new job, I’m not going to think about Henry ever again, I’m going to pester Mary about Francis.  Did you bang it out by the way?”

“Yes,” Mary said, as nonchalantly as possible.

“What?” Kenna squealed in shock.

“You’re joking,” Greer said sharply.

“Last weekend?” Lola asked and they all turned to look at her.

“Yeah.  On Friday of last week.”

“So that’s why he was so calm when we were talking about Stephane,” Lola said, sounding like she was trying not to laugh. 

Mary chuckled.  “I suppose that would do it.”

“You didn’t tell us,” Kenna said, sitting up and hitting Mary’s arm.

“We hadn’t really talked about it, and I didn’t want to jinx it until we had,” she said.

“And then of course he spent the weekend in the hospital,” Greer said.  “Did you finally talk?”

Mary took a deep breath.  “Yeah.  We did.”

“Are you going to bang it out again?” 

“I think Kenna means are you going to _date_ again,” Lola asked quietly. When Mary looked at her, her eyes were bright—hopeful even. 

“When he gets out, probably.”

“To the dating or the banging?” Kenna asked.

“I can’t really fathom them dating without banging,” Greer pointed out.

And Mary was laughing again.  She was laughing and her heart was swelling in her chest, and she felt arms around her as Kenna sat up to hug her, and then Greer hugged her over the back of the couch and Lola reached for her hand.

Mary didn’t know when she’d felt happier.

* * *

Mary sat in the waiting room at the hospital, staring at her phone, reading through headlines. She’d already texted Catherine and Lola letting them know she’d be later to work that day than expected.

Congress was waffling about censuring the president for misconduct, Catherine’s bill was likely going to pass through both the House and the Senate without a hitch, and the President was trying to get everyone to pay attention to that rather than the fact that Congress was possibly going to censure him.  She skated over articles about Kenna, about Catherine, about Francis—only the briefest note that he was making a full recovery and was expected to be out of the hospital soon.

Soon.  Soon was supposed to be thirty minutes before, but he’d texted her to say they were doing one last round of blood work.  So she’d be later than she had planned.

The seat next to her shifted. Mary looked up and smiled.  Francis was there, looking tired, but there was a healthy flush to his cheeks and Mary leaned forward to kiss him at once.  It was perhaps the most familiar kiss she’d ever had, and he smiled into her lips.  _Can he feel it too?  Can he taste forever in my lips the way I can taste it in his?_

“Ready?” she asked him, breaking the kiss and resting her forehead against his.

“Not just yet,” he said and he pulled her lips back to his and the words were sweeter than a dream.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for reading! I hope you like it <3 I have no plans for a sequel at the moment, I'm afraid--I know some of you have asked. 
> 
> I also promise I did my due diligence about trying to figure out what illness Francis had--I asked a med school friend and everything. But when I described the symptoms from the show, he was like "I....have no fucking clue" so I winged it.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks so much for reading! I hope you enjoyed!
> 
> At this point, there are no plans for a sequel, since a few of you have asked. Sorry!


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